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poezie & texty různých autorů
"Ty jsi cynik, prasák, kurevník a lhář. A na tom, to mi můžeš věřit, není nic složitého."
Geralt Marigoldovi (a jedna z nejlepších definic básníka vůbec)
Máte k tomu co říct? Vložte se do diskuze.
NAVON_DU_SANDAU --- 20:20:02 22.5.2006

Cad Godeu

I was in many forms
before I became free...
I was a narrow, blood-stained sword;
I believe that when I was made
I was drops in the air
looking up at the stars,
a word in a letter.
I was a primeval book;
for a year and a half
I was lanterns of light.
I was a bridge spanning
sixty river mouths.
I was a hunter's course,
an eagle;
I was a coracle
in the waters.
I was fizz in a brew
laying men low;
a drop in a shower of rain.
A sword in hand I was,
shield in battle.
For many years
I was a string in a phantom harp.
Foam on water,
spark in a fire.
A log in a blaze.
I am not but that I sing,
I sang since I was a small lad.
At the Battle of the Trees
I sang in the van
before the King of Britain.
I goaded on horses,
fleet of foot.
I fermented fleets
laden with merchandise.
I pierced a scaly monster.
A hundred heads it had,
one mighty host
under the base of its tongue,
another lurking
in the ridges of its neck;
a black-groined toad
with a hundred claws.
Then a variegated, ridged serpent
a hundred souls are tortured
in the folds of its flesh.
I was at the Castle of Nefenhir
when trees and grass
were locked in combat.
Minstrels sang, armies collided.
Trees rose up
before the waver of a magic wand.
We called upon Neifion,
upon Christ from the first causes
so that the Lord would redeem
what he had made.
The Lord answered through the people
and the earth:
"Conjure up majesic trees",
(through him)
"in great numbers
and resist the mob".
When trees were conjured up,
there came a mighty, bounteous host:
hope itself approached.
Plucked out of four kinds of strings
in battle they fell
three battle weary whelps.
The battle-cry racked a woman's heart,
tortured by grief.
Like flaxen tips
the maiden's hair,
the spoils of the heifer of unrest.
They did not succeed
in dispersing us
what with the blood of men
up to our thighs.
The biggest of the Three Bloodbaths,
this, in the history of the world:
one was the outcome of the Flood,
the second was when Christ was crucified
With the Day of Judgement near at hand.
The alder at the front line foraged first.
Then, late for the fray,
came the willow and the rowan-tree.
The prickly blackthorn with bubbling zest,
the blackberry, its royal equal,
taking the position of the heir-apparent
in the thick of the fray.
Rose bushes now ventured forth
with venom against a host.
The rasberry came forming a circle
for the defense of life.
Now privet and honeysuckle,
ivy in its prime,
then the surge of the giant gorse.
Cherry trees had sounded the alarm;
With great pomp was the birch-tree there
donning its armour, not out of cowardice
lingering there, but decking herself for the occasion.
Almond trees arose, exotic trees with foreign nature.
Pine trees took over the centre of the hall:
in the chair of honour did the oak-tree
cut a dash before kings.
Then the lime-tree in all its splendour,
not flinching one foot,
cutting them down left, right and centre.
Hazel trees were now deemed worthy for the fray.
Blessed be the privet, battle-bullock,
king of the world.
Beeches excelled on sea and estuary.
The holly has put forth leaves anew,
now at its best revelling in its battle-cry,
terror dealt from its hand.
A burst of bryony...
it has broken its ranks;
bracken's swell, broom heading for battle
in the furrows of wounding.
Gorse the farmer's bane,
yet were they gathered together.
Heather was deft & victorious,
your warriors all bewitched.
The black-cherry in hot pursuit;
the oak rushing headlong...
before it heaven & earth did shake.
Borage, inveterate fighter,
its name is on the tablets.
The convocation of elms caused terror,
they rebuffed all onslaughts
whenever their defences were breached.
The pear-tree wreaked havock
on the field of battle.
The thorn-apple was awesome,
its advance was constant.
The thrust of the chesnut
put pine-trees to shame.
Jet is wont to be black;
The mountain curved.
Trees are usually slim.
More powerful are high seas.
Since I sensed the time of year
the tips of birches have covered us over,
have undone winter's dying.
The tops of oaks have ensared us
through the Gwarchan of Maeldderw.
Rock-face laughs
the lord is in full battle array.
I was not born of father or mother.
My blood, my creation
stems from the nine forms of essence
From fruition,
from the fruits of the earth,
from the first fructification of God.
From primroses,
flowers of the heights,
flowers of trees & shrubs,
from soil, from earth, was I made;
from nettle-flowers,
from the water of the ninth wave.
Math conjured me up
before I became the gifted one,
Gwydion witched me,
the great Brython king,
& so did Eurwys & Euron,
yes, Euron & Modron
& a hundred & fifty wizards.
Learned men like Math fashioned me.
A chieftain created me
when he was half burnt.
Wizard's ways conjured me up
before the beginning of the world:
before its inhabitation was mine,
before its extent was made.
The gift of a fine poet made us all.
In song do I abide
by what the tongue utters.
I played in the hearthlight,
I slept in purple.
I was in battle array
with Dylan the scion of the wave;
in the encirclement
right in the centre of things:
upon the knees of kings.
Like two inordinate spears
did they come from heaven
to the torrents of Annwfn:
to battle do they come
eighty thousand strong.
And I pierced them through
for all their aggression.
They are no older or younger than me
in their attrition.
The vigour of a thousand men was mine,
the cleaving of all around.
On my silvery sword,
the blood of nobles flows towards me.
Through the instigation of a lord,
through a craven's will
in his haunt a boar was killed.
He made things, he unmade them.
He made languages.
Radiant is his name.
Llwch, he leads a host.
"When I come sparks fly high".
I was a multicoloured serpent on a hill,
a viper in a lake.
I was a sword in the hands of princes.
I was a spit.
These are my cloak and cauldron:
I am well-prepared.
It brings eighty whiffs of smoke to all.
A hundred slave girls
are the value of my knife.
Six golden horses
are a thousand times better.
My light chestnut horse
is as fleet as a seagull.
I was not taken aback
on sea and shore.
I have caused carnage,
the blood of a hundred men
is on my hands.
My shield is studded with gems,
my shield-strap is gold.
In the gap was not born
a name so dear to me
but Gronw from
the meadows of Edrywy.
My fingers are long and white,
far from a shepherd was I reared;
I rolled on the ground
before I became a proficient.
I traversed, I went round them,
I slept on a thousands islands
I took a hundred forts.
Wize druids, prophesy to Arthur
what will be, what is,
what was once to be perceived:
the story of the flood,
Christ's crucifixion
With Judgement Day at hand.
We would extol in golden tones.
I would conjure up shrubs.
For I am wanton
with the prophesy of Virgil.
RICARDERON --- 12:26:20 20.5.2006

F. Gellner

Dlouho to trvalo, než pravdy věčné
v prázdnotě sobecké jsem uviděl.
Za tvůrce a za nahé tvorstvo vděčné,
za sebe sama jsem se zastyděl.

Jsem Adam, jak nás mnoho toho druhu,
jenž přejedl se plody poznání,
a konec konců jde mně přec jen k duhu
hněv boží a mé z ráje vyhnání.

Bych v lítosti si chléb svůj vydělával,
k tomu mne pán bůh nemoh’ přinutit.
Jak divadelních dojmů pestrý nával
působí denní život na můj cit.

RICARDERON --- 0:36:56 20.5.2006

Šárka Smazalová
Krajina naše dávno zpustošená
Pláň moje holá vydaná napospas…

…kdykoliv mi přicházíš
oddávám se moru poézie
Kdykoliv odcházíš
tvé kroky
je mi krví slyšet
A když bouchne jejich brána Hádu
v přetětí mých žil

FIN --- 12:43:13 3.5.2006

Staří básníci
Krví z plic
Zaprodávali duši
Pár tahy pera
Na mé smlouvě

Strachy jsem oněměla

Otisky prstů
V krvi klávesnic
NATASHA --- 12:24:45 21.4.2006
Jsem-li básník, nejsem ryba. Ryba pluje, básník nepluje. Básník kouří, ryba nekouří. Ryba pluje, básník kouří. Jsem básník, kouřím. Mé jméno není ryba. Mé jméno je básník. Jméno ryba není ryba. Jméno je jméno a ryba je ryba. Ryba nevyvolává jména. Ryba mlčky pluje. Básník nekouří mlčky. Básník vyvolává jména. Nevyvolává jména ryb, vyvolává jména básníků. Básníci nejsou ryby. Ryby nedostávají pozvání k večeři. Básníci dostávají pozvání k večeři. Pozvání k rybě není pozvání k básníku. Ryba mlčky pluje a básník nekouří mlčky. Ryba není srdce, ryba je ryba. Básník je srdce. Srdce je válka. Válka jsou porážky a vítězství. Ryba není válka, ryba není porážka a ryba není vítězství. Ryba je ryba. Básník je srdce, básník je válka, básník je porážka a básník je vítězství.

Josef Hiršal, Bohumila Grögerová
Experimentální poezie. Výbor, překlady, původní texty. Odeon, Praha 1967, vydání první.
NATASHA --- 16:30:17 12.4.2006

Mokré stromy. Voda krápe na zem
do zelené srsti zplihlých trav.
Takový je den. A před obrazem,
z něhož zrak si barvy nabírá,

stojí člověk. Na šedivých keřích
visí listy deštěm popsané.
Oči pohlédnou a oči věří.
Vlhká scenerie. Slzy dne.

Jasný smysl všemu tomu dává
kaluž vody, hlava zrcadlená.
Z nízných mraků slabě poprchává.
Šedivý déšť padá do zelena.

Josef Hiršal, Úzké cesty, vydal Václav Petr v Praze roku 1948
NAVON_DU_SANDAU --- 9:14:06 1.4.2006
Alzbetinska loutnova pisen, autorem hudby je J. Dowland, u textu nevim

In Darkness Let Me Dwell

In darkness let me dwell,
The ground, the ground shall sorrow,
sorrow be;
The roof Despair to bar all,
all cheerful light from me;
The walls of marble black that moisten'd,
that moisten'd still shall weep,
still shall weep;
My music, my music hellish,
hellish jarring sounds,
jarring, jarring sounds to banish,
banish friendly sleep.
Thus wedded to my woes
and bedded to my tomb,
O let me living die,
O let me living,
O let me living, living die,
Till death, till death do come,
till death, till death do come,
till death do come.
In darkness let me dwell.
RICARDERON --- 18:36:55 31.3.2006

O. Mikulášek

Ó dušičky vy chabé
se sedmi metry střev,
v nichž city vaše nyjí!
Hle, hřebec toužení,
vraný od černých zrad,
svá zešílevší bělma lunou zpíjí
do blesku potrhaných cév –
a já ho slyším ržát

??? --- 17:09:03 27.3.2006
Markus Jääskeläinen

se zastaví
na noc.

pod keřem.


??? --- 17:07:45 27.3.2006
Heidi Liehuová

Slova neodkazují na skutečnost
ale pouze na jiná slova
a ta zase na jiná
a "slunce" neodkazuje na slunce
ale nejvýš
oklikou na měsíc
a "měsíc" neodkazuje na měsíc
ale nejvýš na "hvězdy"
a na něco "jiného"
ani "srdce" neodkazuje na srdce
a vlastně na nic moc
a skutečnost je text
který nikdo neumí číst
a tak se nikdo
svými slovy nikoho nedotkne

a začne to být zlé
až už nebudeme umět plakat
a "slunce" bude mít masku nakřivo