O that Abstract Garden

Interneto platybėse radau šį Nigerijos rašytojo Ben Okri eilėraštį, kuris man labai patiko. Vadinasi “O that Abstract Garden“.

O that abstract garden of being
Tells me to be brave, and clear,
In the fire of living,
And in the journey through the year.
So I will grow me like an oak tree
And make life’s honey like a bee.
Each day I will walk an interesting mile
And with the sun I’ll share a smile.
I will play again like a child,
And celebrate what’s wild.
I will swim in every sea or river,
And reflect the light of the sublime giver.
I will be at ease with opposition,
And will cultivate intuition.
I will walk the surprising streets,
And dance to life’s unexpected beats.
I will notice all the phases of the moon
And try not to act too late or too soon.
I will write something new every day
And look at paintings in an alternative way.
I’ll not dream the same way twice;
But I’ll not be shy to repeat what’s nice.
I’ll have the courage, when needed, to change;
And I won’t forget that life is strange.
And so I’ll learn to love the simple things
As well as the complexity that life brings.
Good or bad I’ll learn to treat the same
And I’ll not forget that it’s all a mysterious game.
I’ll not let that general fear of death run my life
And I’ll make magic even out of strife.
Into the higher realms I will enter
And make my corner the centre.
O that abstract garden, make me clear,
Make me brave, without fear.
I intend to love this rich new year.

(http://benokri.co.uk)

Miesto sodo fragmentas (Gracas, Austrija)

Miesto sodo fragmentas (Gracas, Austrija)

Trumpai apie dvi knygas

„Antikos poetės. Senovės graikių ir romėnių poezijos rinktinė“. Sudarytoja Audronė Kudulytė-Kairienė

Antikos poetėsBetgi reikia drįst iškentėti viską… 

~ Sapfo

 

Knygoje spausdinami vienuolikos moterų poezijos fragmentai: aštuonių graikių (Sapfo, Korinos, Praksilos, Telesilos, Erinos, Anitės, Nosidės, Moiro) ir trijų romėnių (Sulpicijos, Melino, Balbilos). Apmaudu, jog iš kai kurių poečių kūrybinio palikimo išlikusios tik kelios eilutės. Taigi galima tik nujausti, kokia toji poezija buvo iš tikrųjų. Tačiau smalsu pažvelgti ir į fragmentus, mėginti įsivaizduoti prarastą senovės pasaulį.

Knygos pradžioje pateikiamas sudarytojos straipsnis, kuriame ji apžvelgia negausias poečių gyvenimo detales, aptaria kūrybą. Šis įvadas leidžia geriau suvokti kūrinių kontekstą.

 

Veneros skulptūra (Vatikano muziejus) http://www.mlahanas.de

 

Levas Tolstojus „Ivano Iljičiaus mirtis“

Tolstojus - Ivano Iljičiaus mirtisVisa tai, kuo tu gyvenai ir gyveni, – yra melas, apgaulė, slepianti nuo tavęs gyvenimą ir mirtį.

 

Tai nedidelė knygelė, apysaka. Teismo valdininkas Ivanas Iljičius gyvena, kaip jam atrodo geriausia – lengvai ir patogiai. Kaupia turtą, stengiasi kilti karjeros laiptais ir megzti pažintis su įtakingais žmonėmis. Tačiau sulaukus 45-erių staiga ima blogėti jo sveikata. Kęsdamas nuolatinį skausmą ir jausdamas artėjančią mirtį, vyras priverstas permąstyti savo gyvenimą.

Labai patiko sklandus teksto stilius. Skaitytojui, rodos, suteikiama galimybė seki pasakotojo žvilgsnį ir viską kartu pastebėti. Kartais veikėjai man pasirodydavo vaizduojami pernelyg vienpusiškai (pavyzdžiui, akcentuojamas vien materialistiškumas). Galbūt juos labiau atskleisti trukdė nedidelė kūrinio apimtis. Bet iš esmės apysaka parašyta gan meistriškai – lengvai, bet tuo pačiu atskleidžiant svarbias tiesas.

Stirnos miške gilią žiemą

2015-01-27 14.20.38

 

Skiriu L.

 

Tik tu ir aš stebėjom stirnas miške

gilią žiemą, kai sniego buvo daug.

Stirnos kažko ieškojo, paskui

mus pamačiusios nubėgo – tyliai ir grakščiai.

 

Tada sustojo laikas:

nors vėliau matėm dar daug ir tavęs nebeliko,

mes vis stovim įklimpusios sniege

ir skaičiuojam sekundes iki stirnų bėgimo.

 

Clark E. Moustakas „Vienatvė“

Vienatve

„Gražus vienišos patirties reikšmingumo vaizdinys sukurtas šiame Kahlilio Gibrano (Chalilis Džibranas) eilėraštyje.

 

Žlugime, mano Žlugime, mano vienatve ir mano atskirtie,

Tu man brangesnis nei tūkstantis laimėjimų,

Mano širdžiai esi saldesnis nei visa šio pasaulio šlovė.

 

Žlugime, mano Žlugime, mano savivoka ir mano iššūki,

Tai tavo dėka žinau, jog dar esu jaunas ir eiklus,

Jog man dar negresia įstrigti nuvytusių laurų spąstuos.

Tavy atradau vienišumą

Ir džiaugsmą būti atstumtuoju ir paniekintuoju.

 

Žlugime, mano Žlugime, mano spindintis karde ir skyde,

Tavo akyse perskaičiau,

Kad būti užkeltam ant sosto – tai tas pat, kas pakliūti vergijon,

Būti suprastam – tas pat, kas būti sulygintam su žeme,

O būti perprastam – ne kas kita, kaip pasiekti savo pilnatvę

Ir, tarsi sunokusiam vaisiui, nukristi ir būt suvartotam.

 

Žlugime, mano Žlugime, mano senasis bendražygi,

Tu girdėsi visas mano dainas ir mano šauksmą, ir mano tylėjimą,

Ir ne kas kitas, o tik tu bylosi man apie sparnų plakimą,

Apie jūrų šniokštimą,

Apie kalnus, liepsnojančius naktyje,

Ir tiktai tu įkopsi į mano stačią, uolėtą sielą.

 

Žlugime, mano Žlugime, mano nemirtingas narsume,

Tu ir aš drauge juoksimės ūžiant audrai,

Ir drauge mudu kasime kapus viskam, kas miršta mumyse,

Ir valingai stovėsime saulėje,

Ir būsim pavojingi.“

 

Isaak Brodsky "New Moon" (1906)

Isaak Brodsky “New Moon“ (1906)

Courage

“Red Sky at Night“ (iš sharala.blogspot.com)

Courage

by Anne Sexton

It is in the small things we see it.
The child’s first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.

Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.

Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off your heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.

Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you’ll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you’ll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you’ll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.

Anne Sexton (1928-1974)
Iliustracija iš fineartamerica.com

Her Kind

Otto Hesselbom “Night Sanctuary”Iliustracija iš poietes.wordpress.com

Otto Hesselbom “Night Sanctuary”
Iliustracija iš poietes.wordpress.com

Her Kind

by Anne Sexton

 

I have gone out, a possessed witch,

haunting the black air, braver at night;

dreaming evil, I have done my hitch

over the plain houses, light by light:

lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.

A woman like that is not a woman, quite.

I have been her kind.

 

I have found the warm caves in the woods,

filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,

closets, silks, innumerable goods;

fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:

whining, rearranging the disaligned.

A woman like that is misunderstood.

I have been her kind.

 

I have ridden in your cart, driver,

waved my nude arms at villages going by,

learning the last bright routes, survivor

where your flames still bite my thigh

and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.

A woman like that is not ashamed to die.

I have been her kind.

Because You Loved Me

Because You Loved Me

Because You Loved Me by Maria Polydouri

(iš graikų kalbos į anglų kalbą išvertė Dimitris Psachos)

I only sing because you loved me
in the past years.
And in sun, in summer’s prediction
and in rain and snow,
I only sing because you loved me.

Only because you held me in your arms
one night and you kissed my lips,
only for this I’m beautiful as wide open lily
and I still have a shiver in my soul,
only because you held me in your arms.

Only because your eyes looked at me
with the soul in the glance,
proudly I dressed the supreme
crown of my existence,
only because your eyes looked at me.

Only because as I was passing you noticed me
and from your glance I saw to pass
my lissome shadow as a dream
to play, to suffer,
only because as I was passing you noticed me.

Because you called me shyly
and you reached after my hand
and you had in your eyes the blurring
– a complete love,
because you called me shyly.

Because, it liked only to you
that’s why my passing remained beautiful.
It was like you were following me where I was
as if you were passing somewhere close to me.
Because it liked only to you.

I was born only because you loved me,
my life was given for this.
In the graceless, unfulfilled life
my life was fulfilled.
I was born only because you loved me.

Only for your unique love
dawn gave to my hands roses.
So that I light your way for a moment
night filled my eyes with stars,
only for your unique love.

Only because you loved me so well
I lived in order to increase
your dreams, beautiful man that you set
and thus sweetly I die
only because you loved me so well.

Maria Polydouri
(nuotrauka iš http://mubi.com/users/82177)

Maria Polydouri (1902-1930) – graikų poetė. Gimė Kalamatos mieste 1902 m. Jau vaikystėje ėmė rašyti poeziją, bet pasirinko studijuoti teisę.  M.Polydouri – Kosto Karyotakio, žymaus graikų poeto, amžininkė, buvo nelaimingai jį įsimylėjusi. Marios kūryba pripažinimo sulaukė 1920 m. 1930 m., būdama 28-erių, M.Polydouri mirė nuo tuberkuliozės.

(Informacijos šaltinis – Wikipedia.)

Wind and Window Flower

by Robert Frost

 

Lovers, forget your love,

And list to the love of these.

She a window flower,

And he a winter breeze.

 

When the frosty window veil

Was melted down at noon,

And the caged yellow bird

Hung over her in tune,

 

He marked her though the pane

He could not help but mark,

And only passed her by,

To come again at dark.

 

 

He was a winter wind,

Concerned with ice and snow,

Dead weeds and unmated birds,

And little of love could know.

 

 

But he sighed upon the sill,

He gave the sash a shake,

As witness all within

Who lay that night awake.

 

 

Perchange he half prevailed

To win her for the flight

From the firelit looking-glass

And warm stove-window light.

 

 

But the flower leaned aside

And thought of naught to say,

And morning found the breeze

A hundred miles away.

Dust of Snow

Ivan Shishkin “Winter in wood“
(iliustracija iš josephdonaghy.files.wordpress.com)

Dust of Snow

by Robert Frost

 

The way a crow

Shook down on me

The dust of snow

From a hemlock tree

 

Has given my heart

A change of mood

And saved some part 

Of a day I had rued.