O Punch και η Judy προς το κοινό τους

O Punch και η Judy προς το κοινό τους

Τα νήματα που μας κινούν δύσκολα τα διακρίνεις,

γι'αυτό θαρρούμε ότι είμαστε ελεύθεροι, 

πιστεύοντας πως πράγματα απλά δεν θα μπορούσαν 

να φέρονται με τρόπο άσχημο ή καλό.

Για σας, εμείς οι μαριονέτες είμαστε πιο λίγο

κι από ζωντανές, γιατί η συνείδησή μας μοιάζει

με των ανδρείκελων, που φτιάχτηκαν να κάθονται 

στων θεών τα γόνατα, τ'αστεία τους ν'αραδιάζουν.

Μήπως κι εσείς, οι υποτιθέμενοι θεοί μας,

όμοια από τα νήματα σας αιωρείστε

και χάρη για να δείχνετε αυθόρμητη

χρειάζεστε τα χέρια ενός ανώτερου θεού;

Μοιάζει σαν να κλεινόμαστε ο ένας μες στον άλλο,

καθένας μια μαριονέτα τ'αλλουνού,

που αν τον ρωτούσατε, θα επέμενε

πως είναι ο τελευταίος εγγαστρίμυθος.

Theodore Melnechuck

Spontan

Αν δεν το έχετε προσέξει, έφτιαξα και δεύτερο blog στο tumblr, ονόματι Spontan. Δεν έχει καμία σχέση με το πλέξιμο, είναι απλά ένα μέσο έμπνευσης αλλά και "αποθήκευσης" για ότι ενδιαφέρον βρίσκω στο internet. Ελπίζω να σας αρέσει. ^^

Πλήξη

Πλήξη

Sylvia Plath

Φύλλα τσαγιού αντιμάχονται όσους ερωτοτροπούν με την καταστροφή
σχεδιάζοντας ένα μέλλον, όπου τίποτα δεν πρόκειται να συμβεί:
η παλάμη της τσιγγάνας θα εξακολουθεί με ανία
να προβλέπει την έλλειψη απειλών για μια ηρωική μάχη.
Ο κίνδυνος είναι παιδαριώδης τώρα: ο αφελής ιππότης
βρίσκει ξεχασμένα τέρατα και ανήκουστους δράκους,
ενώ απαθείς πριγκίπισσες κονταροχτυπιούνται με τον τρόμο
κατηγορώντας τον απόλυτο παραλογισμό του.

Το τέρας του Τζέιμς δεν θα ορμήσει έξω από τη φωλιά του,
καταδικάζοντας σε αποτυχία την ανιαρή εφόρμηση του ήρωα˙
κι όταν οι άγγελοι παιανίσουν ανέμελα τις σάλπιγγες του Θεού,
την ώρα που τα βυθισμένα στην πλήξη πλήθη θα ξυπνήσουν
για μια μοναδική φορά από το λήθαργο,
ελπίζοντας να αντικρίσουν τον όλεθρο,
οι ικεσίες και οι προσφορές
δεν θα εμποδίσουν τη λευκή πόρτα του θανάτου να ανοίξει
είτε για την κυρά είτε για την τίγρη.

Στην Αριάδνη

Στην Αριάδνη

(που εγκατέλειψε ο Θησέας)
Sylvia Plath 

  


Ω, μανία αντάξια μόνο του ουρλιαχτού του ανέμου-
το μαστίγωμα των κυμάτων πάνω στην ακτή,
οργίζεσαι μάταια, μέσα στη θάλασσα ώς τη μέση,
προδομένη, εξαπατημένη, εγκαταλελειμμένη για πάντα εκεί.
Οι κραυγές σου χάνονται, τις κατάρες σου δεν τις ακούει αυτός
Που διατρέχει το φτερωτό του δρόμο πάνω από τα σύννεφα.
Τα γλυκόλογα στα χείλη σου είναι αλμυρά τώρα˙
ο πικράλμυρος άνεμος τραγουδάει δυνατά και φάλτσα.
Ούρλιαζε μάταια για εκδίκηση τώρα και τα χέρια σου χτύπα
Μάταια πάνω σε πέτρα απαθή, άτονη.
Τα κρύα κύματα σπάνε χίλια κομμάτια στα πόδια σου˙
ο ουρανός σκληρός - κι εσύ παρατημένη, μόνη.
Η τρομερή οργή καταλαγιάζει και μετά - ματαιότητα.
Γέρνεις εξαντλημένη στον βράχο. Η θάλασσα
αρχίζει να ηρεμεί και η καταιγίδα που κοπάζει
βροντάει αχνά, ενώ τα μαύρα σύννεφα τρέχουν μακριά.
Τώρα τα μικρά κύματα σπάζουν σαν πράσινο γυαλί, πνιγμένο στον αφρό.
Ο άστατος ήλιος στέλνει βέλη φωτός στη γη.
Γιατί στέκεσαι και ακούς μόνο τους
λυγμούς του ανέμου πάνω στην άμμο εκεί;

Change

Change
by sandyjean
 

Never say never
life is changing

Better or worst
it happens

No where to turn
when change happens

Life is changing
every minute

Happy or sad
no matter

Need not except change
consider it

Happens when eyes turn away
for a moment

Except the change
turning back to see

What is changing
in your life

While turning back
to see what occured

When your head
turned in that moment

I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair

I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair
     
DON'T GO FAR OFF, NOT EVEN FOR A DAY
Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,

because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

Pablo Neruda

Lesebuchgeschichten

Lesebuchgeschichten
von Wolfgang Borchert

Alle Leute haben eine Nähmaschine, ein
Radio, einen Eisschrank und ein Telefon.
Was machen wir nun? fragte der Fabrikbesitzer.
Bomben, sagte der Erfinder.
Kriege, sagte der General.
Wenn es denn gar nicht anders geht,
sagte den Fabrikbesitzer.

Persian poem

If You Forget Me

If You Forget Me
     
I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

Pablo Neruda

Το Πιόνι

Το Πιόνι

Πολλάκις βλέποντας να παίζουν σκάκι
ακολουθεί το μάτι μου ένα Πιόνι
οπού σιγά, σιγά τον δρόμο βρίσκει
και στην υστερινή γραμμή προφθαίνει.
Με τέτοια προθυμία πάει στην άκρη
οπού θαρρείς πως βέβαια εδώ θ' αρχίσουν
η απολαύσεις του κ' η αμοιβές του.
Πολλαίς στον δρόμο κακουχίαις βρίσκει.
Λόγχαις λοξά το ρίχνουν πεζοδρόμοι·
τα κάστρα το χτυπούν με ταις πλατειαίς των
γραμμαίς· μέσα στα δυο τετράγωνά των
γρήγοροι καβαλλάρηδες γυρεύουν
με δόλο να το κάμουν να σκαλώση·
κ' εδώ κ' εκεί με γωνιακή φοβέρα
μπαίνει στον δρόμο του κανένα πιόνι
απ' το στρατόπεδο του εχθρού σταλμένο.

Αλλά γλυτώνει απ' τους κινδύνους όλους
και στην υστερινή γραμμή προφθαίνει.

Τι θριαμβευτικά που εδώ προφθαίνει,
στην φοβερή γραμμή την τελευταία·
τι πρόθυμα στον θάνατό του αγγίζει!

Γιατί εδώ το Πιόνι θα πεθάνη
κ' ήσαν οι κόποι του προς τούτο μόνο.
Για την βασίλισσα, που θα μας σώση,
για να την αναστήση από τον τάφο
ήλθε να πέση στου σκακιού τον άδη.

Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης

Die Lösung

Die Lösung
von Bertolt Brecht

Nach dem Aufstand des 17.Juni
Ließ der Sekratär des Schriftstellerverbrands
In der Stalinallee Flugblätter verteilen
Auf denen zu lesen war, dass das Volk
Das Vertrauen der Regierung verscherzt habe
Und es nur durch verdoppelte Arbeit
Zurückerobern könnte. Wäre es da
Nicht doch einfacher, die Regierung
Löste das Volk auf und
Wählte ein anderes?

Das Ideal

Das Ideal

von Kurt Tucholsky

Ja, das möchste:

Eine Villa im Grünen mit großer Terasse,

vorn die Ostsee, hinten die Friedrichstraße;

mot schöner Aussicht, ländlich-mondän, vom Badeyimmer ist die Zugspitze zu sehen -

aber abends zum Kino hast du's nicht weit. 

Das Ganze schlicht, voller Bescheidenheit:

Neun Zimmer, -nein, doch lieber zehn!

Ein Dachgarten, wo die Eichen drauf stehn,

Radio, Zentralheizung, Vakuum,

eine Dienerschaft, gut gezogen und stumm,

eine süße Frau voller Rasse und Verve -

(und eine fürs Wochenend, zur Reserve) -,

einei Bibliothek und drumherum

Einsamkeit und Hummelgesumm.

Im Stall: zwei Ponys, vier Vollbluthengste,

acht Autos, Motorrad - alles lenkste

natürlich selber - das wär' ja gelacht!

Und zwischendurch gehst du auf Hochwilsjagd.

Ja, und das hab' ich ganz vergessen:

Prima Küche - bestes Essen -

alte Weine aus schönem Pokal -

und egalweg bleibst du dünn wie ein Aal.

Und Geld. Und an Scmuck eine richtige Portion.

Und noch 'ne Million und noch 'ne Million.

Und Reisen. Und fröhliche Lebensbuntheit.

Und famose Kinder. Und ewige Gesundheit.

Ja, das möchste!

Aber wie das so ist hienieden:

manchmal scheint's so, als sei es beschieden

nur pöapö, das irdische Glück,

Immer fehlt dir irgendein Stück.

Hast du Geld, dann hast du nicht Käten;

Hast du die Frau, dann fehl'n dir Moneten - 

hast du die Geisha, dann stört dich den Fächer:

bald fehlt uns den Wein, bald fehlt uns der Becher.

Etwas ist immer.

Tröste dich.

Jedes Glück hat einen kleinen Stich.

Wir möchten so viel: Haben. Sein. Und gelten.

Dass einer alles hat: das ist selten.

Die Bücherverbrennung

Die Bücherverbrennung
von Bertolt Brecht

Als das Regime befahl
Bücher mit schädlichem Wissen
Öffentlich zu verbrennen und allenthalben
Ochsen gezwungen wurden, Karren mit Büchern
zu den Scheiterhaufen zu ziehen, entdeckte
ein verjagter Dichter, einer der besten
die Liste der Verbrannten studiert, entsetzt,
dass seine Bücher vergessen waren.
Er eilte zum Schreibtisch, zornbeflügelt,
und schrieb einen Brief an die Machthaber.
Verbrennt mich! schreib er mit fliegender Feder.
Verbrennt mich! Tut mir das nicht an!
Lasst mich nicht übrig! Habe ich nicht immer
die Wahrheit berichtet in meinen Büchern_
Und jetzt werd ich von Euch wie ein Lügner
behandelt! Ich befehle euch:
Verbrennt mich!

As I Grew Older

As I Grew Older     

It was a long time ago.
I have almost forgotten my dream.
But it was there then,
In front of me,
Bright like a sun--
My dream.
And then the wall rose,
Rose slowly,
Slowly,
Between me and my dream.
Rose until it touched the sky--
The wall.
Shadow.
I am black.
I lie down in the shadow.
No longer the light of my dream before me,
Above me.
Only the thick wall.
Only the shadow.
My hands!
My dark hands!
Break through the wall!
Find my dream!
Help me to shatter this darkness,
To smash this night,
To break this shadow
Into a thousand lights of sun,
Into a thousand whirling dreams
Of sun!

Langston Hughes

No man is an island

No man is an island
     
No man is an island entire of itself; every man
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe
is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as any manner of thy friends or of thine
own were; any man's death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

John Donne

Have a nice day

Have A Nice Day
     
'Help, help, ' said a man. 'I'm drowning.'
'Hang on, ' said a man from the shore.
'Help, help, ' said the man. 'I'm not clowning.'
'Yes, I know, I heard you before.
Be patient dear man who is drowning,
You, see I've got a disease.
I'm waiting for a Doctor J. Browning.
So do be patient please.'
'How long, ' said the man who was drowning. 'Will it take for the Doc to arrive? '
'Not very long, ' said the man with the disease. 'Till then try staying alive.'
'Very well, ' said the man who was drowning. 'I'll try and stay afloat.
By reciting the poems of Browning
And other things he wrote.'
'Help, help, ' said the man with the disease, 'I suddenly feel quite ill.'
'Keep calm.' said the man who was drowning, ' Breathe deeply and lie quite still.'
'Oh dear, ' said the man with the awful disease. 'I think I'm going to die.'
'Farewell, ' said the man who was drowning.
Said the man with the disease, 'goodbye.'
So the man who was drowning, drownded
And the man with the disease past away.
But apart from that,
And a fire in my flat,
It's been a very nice day.

Spike Milligan

The Raven

The Raven

 

Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Γρίφοι

A Valentine

For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Loeda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines! -- they hold a treasure
Divine -- the talisman -- an amulet
That must be worn _at heart_. Search well the measure --
The words -- the syllabes! Do not forget
The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor!
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot

Which one might not undo without a sabre,
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now the peering
Eyes scintillating soul, there lie _perdus_
Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
Of poets, by poets -- the name is a poet's, too.
Its letters, although naturally lying
Like the knight Pinto -- Mendez Ferdinando --
Still form a synonym for Truth -- Cease trying!
You will not read the riddle, though you do the best _you_ can do.

1846.

An Enigma

"Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,
"Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
Through all the flimsy things we see at once
As easily as through a Naples bonnet -
Trash of all trash! - how_can_ a lady don it?
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff -
Owl - downy nonsense that the faintest puff
Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."
And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
The general tuckermanities are arrant
Bubbles - ephemeral and _so_ transparent -
But _this_ is, now - you may depend upon it -
Stable, opaque, immortal - all by dint
Of the dear names that he concealed within 't.

1847.

Edgar Allan Poe.

:: Άν θέλετε να βρείτε μόνοι σας τα ονόματα μην διαβάσετε παρακάτω!::

Και στα δύο ποιήματα, αν διαβάσετε το πρώτο γράμμα της πρώτης γραμμής, με το δέυτερο γράμμα της δεύτερης γραμμής, με το τρίτο γράμμα της τρίτης γραμμής κλπ θα ανακαλύψετε τα ονόματα. :D

Gedicht

Gedicht

von P.W.Hensler

Bei mir kann gar kein Buch veralten.

Kaum hab' ich eins, so muß ich's schon verleihen.

Und so fällt's oft den Leuten ein,

dass es viel leichter sei, die Bücher zu behalten

als das, was sie enthalten.

If ..

If

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 can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors 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 things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe 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!

Rudyard Kipling