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Ich weiß nicht, wer ich bin und wer ich war
Ein Fremder vor mir selbst und neu für mich
Und alt, wenn ich im Spiegel sehe
Ich glaubte, dass ich überall zu Hause sei
Und war schon heimatlos, bevor ich noch ganz dort war
Ich bin durchaus sehr zart und fühl‘ mich doch kräftiger als alle
So stark manchmal, so schwach so oft

Ich fürchte mich doch eigentlich vor nichts
Und dabei fürchte ich oft alles
Ich war in allem und ich wollte nirgends sein, wenn ich in allem war
Ich sehne mich nach Einsamkeit sobald ich nicht allein bin!
Ich bin voll energiegeladener Ideen und voll von soviel Traurigkeit
Ich will leben und ich will sterben und ich tue beides oft!
Ich liebe meine Sonne und ich hasse Sie, weil ich begreife, dass ich ihr nicht entkommen kann!

Klaus Kinski

The sin of omission







It isn't the thing you do, dear,
It's the thing you leave undone
That gives you a bit of a heartache
At setting of the sun.

The tender word forgotten,
The letter you did not write,
The flowers you did not send, dear,
Are your haunting ghosts at night.

The stone you might have lifted
Out of a brother's way;
The bit of heartsome counsel
You were hurried too much to say;

The loving touch of the hand, dear,
The gentle, winning tone
Which you had no time nor thought for
With troubles enough of your own.

Those little acts of kindness
So easily out of mind,
Those chances to be angels
Which we poor mortals find -

They come in night and silence,
Each sad, reproachful wraith,
When hope is faint and flagging,
And a chill has fallen on faith.

For life is all too short, dear,
And sorrow is all too great,
To suffer our slow compassion
That tarries until too late;

And it isn't the thing you do, dear,
It's the thing you leave undone
Which gives you a bit of a heartache
At the setting of the sun.


(M. E. Sangster)

Med i so







Madjionicharski sheshir, je li?
Igra za fine ljude?
Mislis, tu ti pomazhe
ako si vesht sa kartama
ili sa kockicama?
Mislis, pomazhe i to
shto umes da sipas poshalice,
da budes drugarchina,
da ostavljas utisak?
Uopshte, kada se srecu
mladic i devojka -
shta tu pomazhe?

Sve to pomazhe.
Budi opushten, ali ne preterano;
budi uzdrzhan i tajanstven, ali samo donekle;
a onda zaboravi sve shto si ikada chuo o ljubavi,
jer to je samo preplanulost od letnjeg sunca
ili rumenilo od zimskog vetra,
a ona dolazi kao promena vremena, i ti tu ne mozhes nishta,
dolazi kao shto ti je doshlo to tvoje lice, kao shto su ti doshle noge,
ili to kako hodas, kako govoris, kako drzis glavu i ruke -
tu se nishta ne mozhe uchiniti - samo se molis, i chekas.

Ima li nachina da se izmeri ljubav?
Ima, ali tek mnogo kasnije,
kad otkucaji tvog srca odu
miljama daleko, chak u velike brojke.

Da li je kljuch za ljubav -strast, mudrost, ili tananost?
Sve troje - uz mesechinu, ruzhe, i sitne kupovine,
uz ono shto se daje i ono shto se prashta, uz ono shto se dobija i shto se zaboravlja,
uz uspomene i rachune za sobu
uz biserje seccanja i uz jaja sa shunkom.

Mozhe li ljubav da se zakljucha i chuva sakrivena?
Mozhe, a onda skuplja prashinu i plesan
pa se smezhurava u polumraku,
sem ako shvati da joj mogu pomoci
sunce i kisha oluje,
ptice u svojim jednosobnim porodichnim gnezdima
shibanim surovim, mahnitim vetrovima.
Sve to pomazhe, i zato
ne zakljuchavaj svoju ljubav, ne skrivaj je.

Kako se javlja prvi znak ljubavi?
U drhtaju, u grashci znoja,
u onom ti-i-ja, mi, nas dvoje,
u paru odgovora,
u ljubichastoj sumaglici na vidiku,
u nizu rezervisanih plesova,
u isprepletanim urezanim inicijalima,
u pet svezhih ljubichica izgubljenih u morskoj soli,
u pticama shto u velikim, jedinstvenim trenucima
ulecu u hiljade prozora i izlecu iz njih,
u srebrnom prstenu, u bronzanom odjeku,
u zlatnom gongu gonnngu onngggu,
u ruzhichastim dverima shto se zatvaraju jedna po jedna
pred sumrachnim pesmama duzh zapada,
u rukunicama i ruchkama zvezda,
u prevojima zavesa mesechine,
u klupchanju i raspetljavanju magle.

Koliko ljubav traje?
Koliko i stakleni mehuri ako se na njih pazi,
ili dve orhideje iz staklene bashte na meccavi,
ili jedan chvrsti i nepokretni chelichni nakovanj
neumoljivo zavaren -
a opet, ljubav mozhe da traje
kao shest pahuljica, shest shestougaonih pahulja,
shest shestougaonih ljuspi snega shto lebde,
ili kao zakletve kiseonika i vodonika u chashi izvorske vode,
ili kao pogled jelena ili srne,
ili kao dve zhelje shto jashu na ledjima jutarnjeg zimskog vetra,
ili kao kutak drevnog oltara
shto se kao svetinja chuva za prisne molitve,
ili kao prah, da, kao dostojanstvena hrpa prashine
kojom se poigrava nepostojani lahor.
Ima tih svetohranilishta
gde se chuvaju med i so.
A ima i onih koji sve to
prosipaju i trace.
Ima i onih koji to trazhe i shtede.
Ljubav mozhe da bude i potraga
cutnjom i smirenoshcu.

Mozhes li kupovati ljubav?
Naravno. Svakog dana - novcem, odecom, shecerlemom,
obecanjima, cvecem, krupnim rechima,
smehom, tepanjem i lazhima
svakoga dana ljudi i zhene kupuju ljubav
i odnose je, pa se neshto deshava,
o njoj se razmishlja,
ali shto se vishe u nju gleda,
to je sve manje ona ljubav koja je bila kupljena:
takva je ljubav samo krivotvorina pod garancijom.

Mozhes li prodavati ljubav?
Da, mozhes je prodati po svakoj ceni,
pa ces da porazmislis,
da opet zaviris u cenu,
pa da zaplaches, da zaplaches u sebi,
i da se upitas ko je i shta je to prodavao, i zashto.
Odsjaji vechernjih popevki shto lebde nad tamnim vodama,
plitak morski rukavac gde se zvezde brchkaju u kadifenim prisencima,
veliki olujni rzaj belih vodenih konja -
za te trenutke nema cene.

Nezvana ili zvana? Kako dolazi ljubav?
I zvana i nezvana, kao uljez i sen,
zora shto zasenjuje prag,
kao traka svetlosti u plavichastoj magli,
polagano zhmirkanje dveju crvenih svetiljki u rechnoj izmaglici,
ili kao gusti dim shto se vije nad grbom neke planine,
a onda se taj dim uvlachi u nabore tvoje odece,
pa ti se uplice i u hod, u tvoje shake, u tvoje lice i ochi.


Karl Sandberg

The Stolen Child

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glossess
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping that he can understand.


W. B. Yeats

From "The Tobacco Shop"

I'm nothing.
I'll allways be nothing.
I can't even wish to be something.
Aside from that, I've got all the world's dream inside me.

Windows of my room,
The room of just one of the millions in the world nobody
knows
(And what would they know, if they knew that? ),
You open on the mistery of a street people are constantly
crossing,
A street blocked off to all though,
A street that's real, impossibly real, and right,
unconsciously right,
With the mistery of things lying under live beings and
stones,
With death spreading darkness on walls and white hair on
heads,
With fate driving the cart of everything down nothingness
road.

Today I'm bowled over, as though hit by the truth.
Today I'm clearheaded, as though I were going to die,
Having no more brotherly feeling for things
Than to say good-bye, turning this house and this side of
the street
Into a line of coaches in a long train with its whistle
shrieking good-bye
From inside my head,
And a nerve-wracking, bone-razbijacing jerk as it moves off.

Today I'm mixed up, like someone who thought
something and grasped it, then lost it.
Today I'm torn between the allegiance I owe
Something real outside me - The Tobacco Shop across
the street,
And something real inside me - the feeling that it's all a
dream.

I failed in everything.
Since I was up to nothing, maybe it was all really
nothing.
From learning and training for anything useful I escaped
By slipping off to the country with great plans,
By found only grass and threes there,
And when there were people, they were just like any
others.
I leave the window, sit down in a chair. What should I
think about?

Fernando Pessoa

In the terrible night, natural substance of every night,
In the night of insomnia, natural substance of all of my nights
I remember what I did and what I could have done in life
I remember, and an anguish
Spreads itself all throughout me like a shiver or a fear.
The irreparability of my past—that is the cadaver!
All the other cadavers might be illusion.
All the dead might be living in another place.
All of my own past moments might exist somewhere.
In the illusion of space and of time,
In the lie of ending.
But what I was not, what I did not do, what I didn't even dream;
What only now I see that I should have done,
What only now I see clearly that I should have been —
That is what is dead for beyond every God,
That—and it was in the end the best of me—is what not even the Gods make live.
If at a certain point,
I had turned left instead of right;
If in a certain moment, I had said yes instead of no, or no instead of yes;
If in a certain conversation,
I had had the phrases that only now, in half-sleep, I elaborate—
Had all of this been so
it would be another today, and maybe the entire universe
Would be insensibly made to be another as well.

But I did not turn to the irreparably lost place,
I did not turn nor think of turning, and only now I sense it;
But I did not say no or not say yes, and only now I see what I did not say;
But the phrases that I did not say in that moment all suggest themselves to me,
Clear, inevitable, natural
The conversation closed decisively,
The subject all resolved...
But only now that which never was, nor will not be behind, hurts me.

What I failed truly does not have any hope
In any metaphysical system.
It could be that in another world I could bring what I dreamed,
But could I bring to another world that which I forgot to dream?
These do, the dreams by being there, they are the cadaver.
I bury it in my heart forever, for all time, for every universe,

In this night where I do not sleep, and serenity nears me
Like a truth from which I did not part,
And the moonlight there, like a hope that I never had, is invisible for me.

Fernando Pessoa

Odlaganje

Prekosutra, da samo prekosutra...
Sutra ću početi da mislim na prekosutra.
To je jedina mogućnost: danas nikako ne...
Ne, danas ništa; ne mogu danas.
Zamršena upornost moje objektivne subjektivnosti,
san moga stvarnog života, umetnut,
iznemoglost prerana i beskrajna,
iznemoglost svijeta da se uđe u tramvaj.
Ta vrsta duše...
Samo prekosutra...
Danas bih htio da se pripremim,
htio bih da se pripremim, kako bih sutra mogao misliti
na idući dan...

On je presudan.
Već imam nacrtan plan; ali ne, danas ne crtam planove,
Sutra je dan planova.
Sutra ću sjesti za stol da osvojim svijet;
ali svijet ću osvojiti tek prekosutra...
Imam želju da zaplačem,
imam želju da zaplačem naglo, iznutra...
Ne, ne pokušavajte saznati ništa više,
to je tajna i neću govoriti.

Samo prekosutra...
Kad sam bio dijete, cijeli tjedan sam se radovao nedjeljnom
cirkusu.
Danas me raduje samo nedjeljni cirkus od cijelog tjedna
mog djetinjstva.

Prekosutra bit ću drugi.
Moj život će triumfirati...
Sve moje sposobnosti inteligentna, odgojena i praktična čovjeka
bit će dekretom sabrane,
ali sutrašnjim dekretom.
Danas hoću da spavam, a sutra ću sve urediti...

Za danas, ima li kakva predstava, koja bi obnovila moje
djetinjstvo?
Pa čak da i sutra kupim ulaznicu,
jer tek prekosutra će biti dobra predstava...
Prije ne...
Prekosutra ću se latiti poslova, koje ću sutra proučiti.
Prekosutra ću konačno biti ono, što danas nikako ne mogu biti.
Samo prekosutra.
Pospan sam kao izgubljen pas na hladnoći.
Veoma sam pospan.
Sutra ću ti reći riječi, ili prekosutra,
Da, možda jedino prekosutra...

Budućnost...
Da, budućnost...

Fernando Pessoa

IF...... Rudyard Kipiling



If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream-- and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you cam meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the lights you gave your life to, broken,
And stop and build'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings- nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And-which is more-you'll be a Man, my son!

The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot

II A Game of Chass

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carved dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
"Jug Jug" to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
"My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
I never know what you are thinking. Think."
I think we are in rats' alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.
"What is that noise?"
The wind under the door.
"What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?"
Nothing again nothing.
"Do
You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
Nothing?"
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes. "Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?"
But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It's so elegant
So intelligent
"What shall I do now? What shall I do?"
I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
"With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
"What shall we ever do?"
The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said.
Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can't.
But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don't want children?
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

...