неделя, 30 октомври 2011 г.
* * *
A few times in my life I've had moments of absolute clarity, when for a few brief seconds the silence drowns out the noise and I can feel rather than think, and things seem so sharp and the world seems so fresh. I can never make these moments last. I cling to them, but like everything, they fade. I have lived my life on these moments. They pull me back to the present, and I realize that everything is exactly the way it was meant to be.
вторник, 20 септември 2011 г.
* * *
Narcissus, gazing at his image in the pool, wept.
A friend passing by saw him and asked,
"Narcissus, why do you weep?"
"Because my face has changed," Narcissus said.
"Do you cry because you grow older?"
"No. I see that I am no longer innocent. I have been gazing at
myself long and long, and so doing have worn my innocence."
A friend passing by saw him and asked,
"Narcissus, why do you weep?"
"Because my face has changed," Narcissus said.
"Do you cry because you grow older?"
"No. I see that I am no longer innocent. I have been gazing at
myself long and long, and so doing have worn my innocence."
четвъртък, 21 юли 2011 г.
"Do you have any advice for those of us just starting out?"
Give up sitting dutifully at your desk. Leave your
house or apartment. Go out into the world.
It's all right to carry a notebook but a cheap
one is best, with pages the color of weak tea
and on the front a kitten or a space ship.
Avoid any enclosed space where more than
three people are wearing turtlenecks. Beware
any snow-covered chalet with deer tracks
across the muffled tennis courts.
Not surprisingly, libraries are a good place to write.
And the perfect place in a library is near an aisle
where a child a year or two old is playing as his
mother browses the ranks of the dead.
Often he will pull books from the bottom shelf.
The title, the author's name, the brooding photo
on the flap mean nothing. Red book on black, gray
book on brown, he builds a tower. And the higher
it gets, the wider he grins.
You who asked for advice, listen: When the tower
falls, be like that child. Laugh so loud everybody
in the world frowns and says, "Shhhh."
Then start again.
Ron Koertge
вторник, 12 юли 2011 г.
Мърша
В прекрасна лятна утрин - спомни си, скъпа моя,
спомни си тая случка пак:
внезапно жалка мърша съзряхме на завоя
връз ложето от камънак.
В една цинична поза като жена продажна
лежеше тя без капка смут -
разкрачена безгрижно, от пот и лиги влажна,
с корем, от газове издут.
А слънцето над нея печеше в небосвода,
бодеше я с безброй жила -
да върне без остатък на вечната Природа
това, което е била.
И гледаше небето как скелетът оголен
цъфти като разкошен цвят.
Смрадта бе тъй ужасна и в тоя въздух болен
зави ти се внезапно свят.
Нападнаха корема мухите забръмчали
там, дето в боен ред пълзят
личинки - черна каша - по дългите парцали
на гниещата мека плът.
Като вълни в морето пропадаше, растеше
и вреше шаващия куп;
би казал, оживял е - набъбваше, свистеше
и се множеше тоя труп.
Летяха странни звуци от купчината жалка:
като ветрец, като река
или като зърната в желязната веялка,
въртяна бавно на ръка.
И изведнъж... Как всичко тук избледня, застина
или бе страшен сън това -
художникът по памет завършва тъй картина,
нахвърляна едва едва -
дойде сърдито куче и дебнеше ни - клето! -
иззад високите скали,
и чакаше да грабне и отнесе парчето,
което от костта свали...
И ти, уви, ще станеш зараза, тлен в земята,
пръстта и теб ще заличи,
ти - моя страст, мой ангел, ти - слънце за душата,
звезда на моите очи.
Да! Ти ще спиш, царице на грациите мили,
в дълбокия и тайнствен мрак,
ще плесенясва бавно под цъфнали бодили
оголения ти гръбнак.
Но щом с целувки алчни нахвърлят се - кажи ти
на червеите в твоя ров,
че аз спасих - и образ, и чувства най-честити! -
разпадналата се любов.
Шарл Бодлер
вторник, 28 юни 2011 г.
White Pig
A family decides to have a party.
It is a graduation or birthday.
The father buys a little white pig,
just enough for his wife and six kids
with something left over for someone special.
The father has no idea how to kill a pig
but he meets a man in a bar who says,
Don't worry, I have killed hundreds of pigs.
He is a young man with a big smile.
On the day of the party, the young man arrives
early in the morning. I have no knife,
he says. And he takes the bread knife
and begins sharpening it on a stone.
He sharpens the knife and drinks brandy.
The white pig trots through the house.
The children have tied a blue ribbon
around her neck and the baby's blue bonnet
on her head. The pig thinks she is very cute.
She lets the children feed her cookies and
ride on her back. The man with the smile keeps
sharpening and drinking, sharpening and drinking.
The morning is getting late. Why don't you
do something? says the father. The pig pokes
her head around the door, then scampers away.
The young man drinks more brandy. It is nearly noon.
Why don't you kill the pig? says the father.
He wants to get it over with. The young man
looks sullenly at the floor, looks sullenly
at the father and his neat little house.
He gets to his feet and sways back and forth.
You're drunk, says the father. The young man
raises the knife. Not too drunk to kill a pig,
he shouts. He stumbles out of the kitchen.
Where's that bitch of a pig? he shouts.
The pig is upstairs with the children.
I'm ready, says the young man, now I'm
really ready. He rushes up the stairs
and into the room where the pig is playing.
You whore! he shouts. He drives at the pig
and stabs her in the leg. The pig squeals.
Outside, shouts the father, you have to kill her
outside! The pig is terrified and rushes
around the room squealing and bleeding on the rug.
The blue bonnet slips down over one eye.
You slut! shouts the young man. He leaps
at the pig and stabs her in the shoulder.
The children are screaming. The parents are shouting.
The young man chases the pig through the whole house.
You whore, you slut, you little Jew of a pig!
Outside, outside! shouts the father. He knows
the rules, knows how a pig should be killed.
For the pig, it's a nightmare. The blue bonnet
has slipped down over both eyes and she can
hardly see. She squeals over and over. There is
no sound in the world like that one.
At last the young man traps the pig
in the laundry room. He leaps on her.
You black bitch of a pig! he shouts. He stabs
the pig over and over. The children
stand in the doorway crying. The father
is crying. His wife hides in the bedroom.
What a great party this has turned out to be.
Finally the pig is dead. The young man
holds her up by the hind legs. Again he is
smiling. This is one dead pig! he shouts.
He has probably stabbed her over two hundred times.
The pig looks like a piece of Swiss cheese.
The young man carries the pig to the kitchen
and begins to butcher her, then he helps
to cook the pig. All afternoon the house
is full of wonderful smells. The children
hide in their bedrooms. The mother and father
scrub and scrub to clean up the blood. At last
the pig is ready to be eaten. It is a party,
maybe a graduation or birthday.
The children refuse to come downstairs.
The mother and father don't feel hungry.
The young man sits at the table by himself.
He is served by a neighborhood girl hired
to wash the dishes. He eats and eats. Tasty,
he says, there's nothing so tasty as a young pig.
He drinks wine and laughs. He stuffs himself
on the sweet flesh of the little white pig.
Late at night he is still eating. The children
are in bed, the parents are in bed. The father
lies on his back and listens to the young man singing -
hunting songs, marching songs, songs of journeys
through dark places, songs of conquest and revenge.
Stephen Dobyns
It is a graduation or birthday.
The father buys a little white pig,
just enough for his wife and six kids
with something left over for someone special.
The father has no idea how to kill a pig
but he meets a man in a bar who says,
Don't worry, I have killed hundreds of pigs.
He is a young man with a big smile.
On the day of the party, the young man arrives
early in the morning. I have no knife,
he says. And he takes the bread knife
and begins sharpening it on a stone.
He sharpens the knife and drinks brandy.
The white pig trots through the house.
The children have tied a blue ribbon
around her neck and the baby's blue bonnet
on her head. The pig thinks she is very cute.
She lets the children feed her cookies and
ride on her back. The man with the smile keeps
sharpening and drinking, sharpening and drinking.
The morning is getting late. Why don't you
do something? says the father. The pig pokes
her head around the door, then scampers away.
The young man drinks more brandy. It is nearly noon.
Why don't you kill the pig? says the father.
He wants to get it over with. The young man
looks sullenly at the floor, looks sullenly
at the father and his neat little house.
He gets to his feet and sways back and forth.
You're drunk, says the father. The young man
raises the knife. Not too drunk to kill a pig,
he shouts. He stumbles out of the kitchen.
Where's that bitch of a pig? he shouts.
The pig is upstairs with the children.
I'm ready, says the young man, now I'm
really ready. He rushes up the stairs
and into the room where the pig is playing.
You whore! he shouts. He drives at the pig
and stabs her in the leg. The pig squeals.
Outside, shouts the father, you have to kill her
outside! The pig is terrified and rushes
around the room squealing and bleeding on the rug.
The blue bonnet slips down over one eye.
You slut! shouts the young man. He leaps
at the pig and stabs her in the shoulder.
The children are screaming. The parents are shouting.
The young man chases the pig through the whole house.
You whore, you slut, you little Jew of a pig!
Outside, outside! shouts the father. He knows
the rules, knows how a pig should be killed.
For the pig, it's a nightmare. The blue bonnet
has slipped down over both eyes and she can
hardly see. She squeals over and over. There is
no sound in the world like that one.
At last the young man traps the pig
in the laundry room. He leaps on her.
You black bitch of a pig! he shouts. He stabs
the pig over and over. The children
stand in the doorway crying. The father
is crying. His wife hides in the bedroom.
What a great party this has turned out to be.
Finally the pig is dead. The young man
holds her up by the hind legs. Again he is
smiling. This is one dead pig! he shouts.
He has probably stabbed her over two hundred times.
The pig looks like a piece of Swiss cheese.
The young man carries the pig to the kitchen
and begins to butcher her, then he helps
to cook the pig. All afternoon the house
is full of wonderful smells. The children
hide in their bedrooms. The mother and father
scrub and scrub to clean up the blood. At last
the pig is ready to be eaten. It is a party,
maybe a graduation or birthday.
The children refuse to come downstairs.
The mother and father don't feel hungry.
The young man sits at the table by himself.
He is served by a neighborhood girl hired
to wash the dishes. He eats and eats. Tasty,
he says, there's nothing so tasty as a young pig.
He drinks wine and laughs. He stuffs himself
on the sweet flesh of the little white pig.
Late at night he is still eating. The children
are in bed, the parents are in bed. The father
lies on his back and listens to the young man singing -
hunting songs, marching songs, songs of journeys
through dark places, songs of conquest and revenge.
Stephen Dobyns
понеделник, 27 юни 2011 г.
* * *
И с мене тъй ще стане. Ако теб -
дух, въздух - са способни да затрогнат
мъченията им, как аз - човекът,
възприемчив към болка като тях -
от тебе по-дълбоко да не бъда
разчувстван пред вида им? Да, макар
в живеца си засегнат да съм още
от злата им неправда спрямо мен,
ще взема аз на разума страната
срещу гнева си. Прошката е ценност,
по-рядка от разплатата. Понеже
разкаяни са, знам, оттук нататък
аз няма повече да ги наказвам
дори с едно навъсване. Пусни ги!
Магията ще счупя, ще им върна
разсъдъка и те, каквито бяха,
ще бъдат пак.
дух, въздух - са способни да затрогнат
мъченията им, как аз - човекът,
възприемчив към болка като тях -
от тебе по-дълбоко да не бъда
разчувстван пред вида им? Да, макар
в живеца си засегнат да съм още
от злата им неправда спрямо мен,
ще взема аз на разума страната
срещу гнева си. Прошката е ценност,
по-рядка от разплатата. Понеже
разкаяни са, знам, оттук нататък
аз няма повече да ги наказвам
дори с едно навъсване. Пусни ги!
Магията ще счупя, ще им върна
разсъдъка и те, каквито бяха,
ще бъдат пак.
Просперо, "Бурята", Шекспир
неделя, 26 юни 2011 г.
* * *
А по какво всъщност се познава благополучието? По това, че един успял човек е истинско удоволствие за сетивата ни, той е като издялан от един ствол, едновременно нежен, твърд, благоуханен! Приятно и вкусно му е единствено онова, което е поносимо за него, удоволствието свършва при прехвърляне границата на поносимото. Той измисля лекарства срещу болестите, възползва се от неприятните случаи, извличайки от тях полезното, онова, което не го убива, го прави по-силен. Той инстинктивно натрупва у себе си всичко, което вижда, чува и преживява - самият той е един селективен принцип - ненужните неща изхвърля. Той винаги е в своето общество и компания - все едно дали с книги, хора или природа: той изразява почитта си тогава, когато избира, когато допуска до себе си, когато се доверява. На всички дразнения той реагира бавно, с оная умереност, възпитана благодарение на дългата предпазливост и желаната гордост, той просто изпитва дразнението, но не му се противопоставя... Той не вярва нито на "нещастието", нито на "вината" - справя се със себе си и с другите, умее да забравя - достатъчно е силен, всичко да му се удава по най-добрия начин. Е, за щастие съм пълна противоположност на декадента, защото току-що описах себе си.
Ecce Homo - Как се става такъв, какъвто си, Фридрих Ницше
вторник, 29 март 2011 г.
The Emperor of Ice-Cream
Викни пушача на дебели пури,
та с мускулите яки да избива
във чайни чашки сластната извара.
Девиците да носят рокли леки,
тъй както са привикнали;
момците да им поднасят
цвете в късче вестник.
Привършва се нелепият театър.
Наш цар е сладоледеният император.
От скрина с липсващи кристални дръжки
ти извади чаршафа, върху който
три птички са бродирани отколе
лицето й със него да закриеш.
Ако стърчат нозете загрубели, то
знак е, че от студ изтръпва цяла.
И лампите ще духне мощен вятър.
Наш цар е сладоледеният император.
Wallace Stevens
та с мускулите яки да избива
във чайни чашки сластната извара.
Девиците да носят рокли леки,
тъй както са привикнали;
момците да им поднасят
цвете в късче вестник.
Привършва се нелепият театър.
Наш цар е сладоледеният император.
От скрина с липсващи кристални дръжки
ти извади чаршафа, върху който
три птички са бродирани отколе
лицето й със него да закриеш.
Ако стърчат нозете загрубели, то
знак е, че от студ изтръпва цяла.
И лампите ще духне мощен вятър.
Наш цар е сладоледеният император.
Wallace Stevens
четвъртък, 17 март 2011 г.
* * *
Може ли да обича хищникът? Не може. Но той не може и да мрази. Хищникът е винаги невинен, когато разкъсва топлата човешка плът, когато облизва с език кървавата си муцуна. Той се храни, както кравата пасе, както врабчето пие вода след дъжд от блесналата на слънцето локва.
Нощем с белите коне
Павел Вежинов
Нощем с белите коне
Павел Вежинов
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