Poezitë që parapëlqej.

Diskutime tek 'Letërsia' filluar nga Ema, 4 Nov 2002.

  1. Qerratai

    Qerratai Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    Shqiptar e shkuar Shqiptarit - Alban Tartari



    Une, jam shqiponja e Bjeshkeve te Namuna,
    Jam flamuri qe Ismailit i rri te koka e varrit,
    jam pisqolla e arte fshehur ne gji te Ises,
    Jam gjoksi i gjakosur i Adem Jasharit.


    Une, jam topuzi i Gjergj Elez Alise,
    Hija e Kostandinit qe sjell naten Doruntinen,
    Jam nje fije e mustaqeve te Gjeto Basho Mujit,
    Nje hap i tij qe trondit tere krahinen.


    Une, jam rreptesia e Leke Dukagjinit,
    Nje fjale e rende ne faqet e Kanunit,
    Jam nje gur i bardhe ne brigjet e Drinit,
    Shpata qe Skenderbeu lart e tundi.


    Une, jam nje strofe e bukur e Naimit,
    Shkruar mbi malet , fushat e brigjet,
    Jam malli i Serembes, Samiut, Jeronimit,
    Jam shpirti i tyre, qe ne kurbet vazhdon te digjet.


    Une, jam deshmori qe ra ne Mitrovice,
    E me gjakun tim u la edhe Cameria,
    Se jam ai qe nuk u qa kur vdiq,
    Se per deshmoret nuk qan njerezia.


    Une, jam nje pushke qe del nga frengjite,
    Jam nje kenge labe, nje tel i ciftelise,
    Jam Cerciz Topulli qe kurre s'ra ne prite,
    Jam e kuqja e flamurit atje lart, ne shtize.


    Ja pra, une jam shqiponja e Bjeshkeve te Namuna,
    Jam lulja qe i ka mbire Ismailit te koka e varrit,
    jam pisqolla e arte e dinakut Ise,
    jam gjoksi i copetuar i Adem Jasharit.


    Une jam Shqiptar e shkuar Shqiptarit...
     
  2. alinos

    alinos Forumium maestatis

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    <div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Originally Posted By: moonlight</div><div class="ubbcode-body">Fire And Ice
    Robert Frost

    Some say the world will end in fire;
    Some say in ice.
    From what I've tasted of desire
    I hold with those who favor fire.
    But if it had to perish twice,
    I think I know enough of hate
    To know that for destruction ice
    Is also great
    And would suffice. </div></div>

    cudi, kjo njehere me ka rene provim. Atehere e kisha mesuar permendesh. Cudi, shume cudi!
     
  3. alinos

    alinos Forumium maestatis

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    <div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Originally Posted By: Satin_Yearn</div><div class="ubbcode-body"> T.S. Eliot (1888–1965).

    1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

    ...
    In the room the women come and go
    Talking of Michelangelo.

    The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
    The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
    Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
    Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
    Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
    Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
    And seeing that it was a soft October night,
    Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

    And indeed there will be time
    For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
    Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
    There will be time, there will be time
    To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
    There will be time to murder and create,
    And time for all the works and days of hands
    That lift and drop a question on your plate;
    Time for you and time for me,
    And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
    And for a hundred visions and revisions,
    Before the taking of a toast and tea.

    In the room the women come and go
    Talking of Michelangelo.

    And indeed there will be time
    To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
    Time to turn back and descend the stair,
    With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
    [They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
    My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
    My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
    [They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
    Do I dare
    Disturb the universe?
    In a minute there is time
    For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

    For I have known them all already, known them all:—
    Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
    I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
    I know the voices dying with a dying fall
    Beneath the music from a farther room.
    So how should I presume?

    ...

    I grow old … I grow old …
    I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

    Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
    I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
    I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

    I do not think that they will sing to me.

    I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
    Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
    When the wind blows the water white and black.

    We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
    By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
    Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

    1917

    Kjo eshte nje nga pjeset me te shkelqyera qe kam lexuar ...
    </div></div>

    perzgjodha dhe une vargjet me te pelqyera te saj...
     
  4. alinos

    alinos Forumium maestatis

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    <div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Originally Posted By: *Kone*</div><div class="ubbcode-body">Ka dashuri te vogla
    Dashuri te pare, dashuri nr. 1,
    Dashuiza,
    Qe zukatin ne kujtese posi miza,
    Qe bejne kakao,
    Qe lajne kanotjera;
    Ka dhe dashuri te medha; te lira si era,
    Mbetur tutje-tehu neper bote anembane
    Qe s'na dijne ku jemi,
    Qe s'i dijme ku jane.

    Dashuri e vogel kerkon te kthej fotografite;
    Dashurive te medha u merr erë floket ndane binareve,
    Ngulçimet e tyre u ngjajne sirenave,
    Sirenave te hapsirta te ndarjeve.

    I. Kadare
    </div></div>

    I love this one. Thjesht e bukur!
     
  5. alinos

    alinos Forumium maestatis

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    <div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Originally Posted By: Satin_Yearn</div><div class="ubbcode-body"> (Dritero Agolli)


    Malli per heronjte

    S'ka heronj,heronjte i perzume
    me lavdi perdite i nanuritem
    dhe me lajka dalengadale i vume
    nje nga nje ne prehje dhe ne gjume.

    S'ka heronj,heronjte u merziten,
    prisnin endrrat,endrrat u vonuan
    duke pritur heshten e dremiten
    dhe ne nina-nana u kenduam.

    C'digjeni nga malli per heronjte?
    kushedi kur kthehen nga kjo ane
    C'i kerkoni?Pritja eshte e kote
    S'ka heronj,tani ka pelivane!

    </div></div>

    bukur! sh. bukur!
     
  6. Guest

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    APOTEZA GRI


    Qielli eshte gri
    Toka eshte gri
    Gri dhe puthja

    Buka s’ka ere
    Era s’ka ere
    S’ka ere lulja

    Endrra eshte gri
    Gjaku eshte gri
    Gri dhe zjarri

    Molla s’ka ere
    Uji s’ka ere
    S’ka ere bari

    Moti eshte gri
    Shpirti eshte gri
    Gri dhe kenga

    Era pa ere
    Buka pa buke
    Pa zemer zemra

    Xh. Spahiu
     
  7. Hellena

    Hellena Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    Kënga e Melankonisë

    Në ajrin e përndritur,
    Kur vesa ngushëllimtare
    Bie në tokë,
    E paparë, e padëgjuar
    Me këpucë të hijshme e të lehta.
    Si të gjithë ngushëllimet e ëmbla,
    A të kujtohet, të kujtohet, zemër e zjarrtë,
    Si dikur digjeshe nga etje
    Për lotë hyjnorë, për vesë ngushëllimtare,
    E etur, e lodhur, e zhuritur,
    Teksa në shtigje me bar të zverdhur,
    Rrezet përvëlimtare, verbimtare, dashakeqëse?

    “Dashnor i së vërtetës? Ti ? – Kështu të tallin –
    Jo ! Vetëm një poet !
    Një bishë dinake, grabiqare, tinëzare,
    Që duhet të gënjejë,
    Që duhet të gënjejë me vetëdije dhe me dashje,
    Dhe të dëshirojë prenë,
    Me ngjyrime larve.
    Dhe vetë larvë,
    Dhe vetë pre !
    Ky dashnor i së vërtetës ?
    Jo vetëm një i marrë ! Vetëm një poet !
    Duke folur vetëm për ngjyrat,
    duke bërtitur nga larva laramane e çmendurisë,
    Vërtitet në urën e fjalëve rrenacake,
    Ndër qiejsh të rremë,
    Duke ardhur përqark vërdallë !
    Vetëm një i marrë, vetëm një poet !

    Ky dashnor i së vërtetës ?
    Jo, përfytyrim
    I heshtur, i ngrirë, i lëmuar, i ftohtë,
    Dhe as shtatore hyjnore
    E vendosur para tempujve
    Në roje të pragut të shenjtë.
    Jo ! Armik i shtatoreve të virtytit,
    Më e afërt sesa shkretia e pragut të një tempulli.
    Me guxim prej maceje
    Hidhet nga çdo dritare,
    Në çdo çast,
    Duke nuhatur me dëshirë dhe pasion,
    Vrapon nëpër pyjet e virgjër,
    Në mes bishave me lëkurë lara – lara.
    I shëndetshëm, plot ngjyra, i bukur si mëkati,
    Me buzët dëshirake,
    Hyjnisht tallëse, hyjnisht skëterrore,
    Hyjnisht të etura për gjak,
    Sulet për grabitje, gënjeshtar dhe tinëzar;
    Apo si shqiponja
    Që nga larg vëzhgon greminën,
    Greminën e vet.
    Ah, si ulet
    Poshtë e më posthtë,
    Thellë e më thellë,
    Dhe pastaj, duke mbledhur flatrat,
    Lëshohet si plumb
    Mbi qengjin,
    Armike e shpirtrave të butë si qengji,
    Duke urryer të gjithë ata që e vështrojnë
    Me vështrim prej deleje, ata që e kanë lëkurën
    Të butë si të sajën, dhe butësi qengji !

    Kështu,
    Si shqiponja e si pantera
    Janë dëshirat e poetit,
    Dëshirat e tua, mes mijra maskash,
    O i marrë, o poet !

    Ti që pe njeriun,
    Ashtu si Zoti qengjin,
    Për të zhbimë Zotin nga njeriu,
    Dhe butësinë prej qengji nga shpirti,
    Qeshje gjatë zhbimjes, -
    (Kjo, kjo është lumturia jote !
    Lumturi shqiponje dhe pantere,
    Lumturi poeti dhe të marri !”)

    Në ajrin e përndritur,
    Kur drapri i hënës,
    Armik i ditës,
    I blertë mes kuqëlimit të purpurtë,
    Futet vjedhurazi lakmitar,
    Duke rrëshqitur në çdo çap,
    Tinëzar në kaçubet e trëndafilave,
    Gjersa ato këputen e molisen
    Të zbehta nëpër natë.

    Kështu molisesh njëherë,
    Prej çmendurisë të së vërtetës,
    Prej gëzimeve të ditëve
    I lodhur, dhe i sëmurë nga drita,
    I këputur nga mbrëmjet dhe hijet.
    Për të vërtetën
    I djegur dhe i etur.
    Të kujtohet, të kujtohet, zemër e zjarrtë,
    Si lëngoje nga etja ?
    Se i djegur jam
    Për të vërtetat,
    Si i marrë,
    Si poet !


    Nietzsche
     
  8. Guest

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    Buka jone e perditshme, Xhevahir Spahiu - nga libri “Ferrparajsa”

    Ti erdhe prane dhe me the:
    Ta hengra zemren!
    Une mbylla syte
    dhe shpleksa endrren.
    Shoh si pergjaket zemra ime
    ne buzet e tua prej mishi dhe drite.
    Te befte mire, e dashur.
    Po tani, tani a s’me thua
    pa zemer, si mund te te dua?
    Ti the dy fjale,
    hodhe nje gur:
    Ta hengra zemren
    dhe une i pergjakur numeroj
    rrathet e endrres.
    E di: zemra ime
    zemren tende e ka bere cope e cike,
    kullon gjaku prej saj
    si kokrrat e sheges, pike-pike.
    Ti the: Ta hengra zemren,
    kur une fatziu e kisha sosur tenden.
    Ishte koha e zise
    dhe zemrat na u bene buka jone e perditshme.
     
  9. VoGeLuShI

    VoGeLuShI Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    Pi per shendetin e Merit,
    q'e kam ketu thelle ne gji,
    heshtaz e mbylla deren,
    vetem, pa miq ne gosti,
    pi per shendetin e Merit.

    Ndoshta m'e bukur se Meri,
    eshte mbi dhe nje perri,
    por s'gjenden dot sy te tjere,
    te te shohin me kaq embelsi
    si syt e te embles Meri.

    Qofsh pra e lumtur moj Meri,
    o diell me rreze flori,
    ne jete mos ndjefsh asnjehere,
    dhembje dhe brengje ne gji,
    gezim te ndritte, moj Meri.
     
  10. VoGeLuShI

    VoGeLuShI Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    Son forse un poeta?
    No, certo.
    Non scrive che una parola, ben strana,
    la penna dell'anima mia:
    "follia".
    Son dunque un pittore?
    Neanche.
    Non ha che un colore
    la tavolozza dell'anima mia:
    "malinconia".
    Un musico, allora?
    Nemmeno.
    Non c'è che una nota
    nella tastiera dell'anima mia:
    "nostalgia".
    Son dunque... che cosa?
    Io metto una lente
    davanti al mio cuore
    per farlo vedere alla gente.
    Chi sono?
    Il saltimbanco dell'anima mia.
     
  11. Qerratai

    Qerratai Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    Nje vit i rende per statistikat ne Danimarke!

    Kam qene I palumtur 11,3 here ne vitin e kaluar
    Dhe I lumtur 8,1 here
    3,7 here kam mashtruar gruan time
    Dhe u mashtrova 5,2 here.
    Kam vjedhur 12 korona dhe 0 oere
    Dhe mu vodhen 13 ½ .
    U martova 0,13 here, u ndava 0,10 here
    dhe u divorcova 0,75 here.
    Jam bere baba I 0,18 femijeve,
    U shtypa nga 0,1437 bicikleta transporti
    Dhe u arrestova nje numer te ngjashem heresh.
    Jam perplasur me 8,4 makina, 3,2 motocikleta,
    ½ tren
    Dhe 0,0 vagoneta.
    Kam fluturuar 8 here
    Dhe jam rrezuar me 1,6 avione.
    Kam gjuajtur 0,07 fazane, 0 papagaj, 0
    presidente.
    Kam qene ne burg per 3,9 dite,
    Prej te cilave 0,2 ne arrest.
    4,7 here kam qene ne Malmoe
    Nga kam marr me vete 1,4 pako cigare dhe 1,05
    kile kafe.
    Kam pare 6,7 filma,
    3,2 shfaqje teatri,
    Kam zbrazur 1 ¼ shishe wiski
    Dhe kam vdekur 1 ½ here.
    Ka qene vit I rende,
    Nese doni ta dini mendimin tim.



    Peter Poulsen
     
  12. Piccolina

    Piccolina Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    Kjo poezia jote, nuk e di pse me kujtoi kte tjetren...

    Gjerat qe nuk bere

    Kujtoj diten qe te mora hua makinen
    dhe ta demtova, te kujtohet apo jo?
    Thashe se do me vritje por ti nuk e bere
    Kujtoj ate dite qe ngulmova te shkojme ne plazh
    ndersa ti me kundershtoje
    se dukej qe do te binte shi, dhe ra shi apo jo?
    Thashe se do te me bertisje:
    "Te pata thene!", por ti nuk e bere
    Kujtoj ate dite kur u perdridhesha te gjitheve,
    per te te bere xheloz,
    dhe ti u bere xheloz, te kujtohet apo jo?
    Thashe se do te me lije, por ti nuk e bere.
    A te kujtohet atehere
    Kur permbysa nga inati torten
    Ne tapetin e makines tende?
    Thashe se ti mo rrihje, por ti as kete nuk e bere.
    Kujtoj ate nate qe harrova te te them
    se ne pritje duhej shkuar me veshje serioze
    dhe ti erdhe i veshur me xhinse, a te kujtohet?
    Thashe se do me ndeshkoje, por ti nuk e bere.
    Po jane kaq shume gjera qe ti nuk i bere!
    Sepse kishe durim me mua, me dashuroje dhe me mbroje.
    Ishin kaq shume gjerat per te cilat
    desha te te kerkoj te falur
    kur te ktheheshe nga Vietnami,
    Por ti nuk u ktheve!
     
  13. olololol

    olololol Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    Dashurise - NDOC GJETJA

    O Perendeshe e gjithe pushtetshme
    e universit mashkull femer
    Bej c'te duash me veten time
    jam instrumenti yt i vjeter.

    Ne jete me solle kaq shume dhimbje
    dhe shqetesime pambarim
    po s'jam ankuar kunder teje
    as me goje e as me shkrim.

    Te jam nenshtruar e te nenshtrihem
    gjersa ne bote te jem i gjalle
    nen pushtetin tend te perbotshem
    me pelqen te jem nje skllav

    Ma ktheve gjuhen ne percartje
    me bere plak me shpirt femije
    here me hodhe qefinin kraheve
    here me ngrite gjer ne yje.

    Me hidh ne zjarr, ne det, ne ferr!
    Me hidh ne balte, me hidh ne hon!
    Vec te lutem mos me ler
    ne ate vend ku ti mungon.
     
  14. katunarja

    katunarja Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    Femra te denuara

    Ato, si ajo grigja qe shtrire mbi rere rri menduar,
    U hedhin horizonteve te deteve shikime te dridhura,
    Kembet duke dashur t'i prekin, duart duke i afruar
    Mes ligeshtimve te embla e rrenqethjeve te hidhura.

    Ca prej tyre qe kane pritur aq gjate nje miqesi,
    Belbezojne thelle gjethnajave ku perrenjte gurgullojne,
    Rrokje per rrokje, dashurine e te druajtures femijeri,
    E gjetheza te reja pyjeve te gjelber nisin e u bulojne.

    Ca te tjera , si murgesha ecin rruges, gati duke u zvarritur,
    Mes per mes shkembenjeve mbushur plot vegime
    Aty ku San Antonio pa si nje llave te zjarrte vervitur,
    Gjokset lakuriq e te purpurt te te tijave tundime.

    Ka edhe nga ato, qe neper refleksin e rreshires rreshqitese,
    Brenda boshllekut te heshtur te pasqyrave pagane,
    Te therrasin per ti ndihmuar ne ethet e tyre flakeritese
    Ty o Baccho qe fashit sembimet me antike mjerane!

    Ka edhe te tjera qe gjoksi i beqareve u sjell aq kenaqesi,
    Qe duke fshehur nje kamzhik ne palat e fundeve te gjate
    Perziejne ne nje cep pylli te zymte a neteve plot vetmi,
    Shkumen e bute te qejfit me lotet e dhimbjes se pamate.

    O virgjeresha, o djallushka, o mostra, o martirake
    O shpirtra te medhenj qe realiteti u jep percmim te zi,
    Kerkoni te pafundmen , here te devoteshme here dionizake,
    Here ne ulurima thare, here ne denesa te zena pusi!

    Ju qe ne ferrin tuaj shpirtin ma keni shpene e keni shqyer,
    Ju dua e meshiroj, o moterzat e mia te shkreta ne kete bote
    Per at ngrysje te vuajtjes, per ate etje kurre shperblyer
    Per ata lumenj dashurie qe zemrat e medha ua mbushin plot !

    Bodler (Lulet e se keqes)
     
  15. MeLoDy

    MeLoDy Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    kjo nuk esht poezi po nejse..
    "Dikur ti me pyete ke do me shume ,mua apo jeten .Une te thashe jeten, por atehere ti nuk e dije se ti ishe vete jeta ime..."
     
  16. ^Res-Cogitans^

    ^Res-Cogitans^ Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    HOWL - Allen Ginsberg



    I

    I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
    madness, starving hysterical naked,
    dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
    looking for an angry fix,
    angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
    connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
    ery of night,
    who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
    up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
    cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
    contemplating jazz,
    who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
    saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-
    ment roofs illuminated,
    who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
    hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
    among the scholars of war,
    who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
    publishing obscene odes on the windows of the
    skull,
    who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-
    ing their money in wastebaskets and listening
    to the Terror through the wall,
    who got busted in their pubic beards returning through
    Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
    who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
    Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their
    torsos night after night
    with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al-
    cohol and cock and endless balls,
    incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and
    lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of
    Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo-
    tionless world of Time between,
    Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery
    dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops,
    storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
    blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree
    vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook-
    lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
    who chained themselves to subways for the endless
    ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine
    until the noise of wheels and children brought
    them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
    battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
    in the drear light of Zoo,
    who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's
    floated out and sat through the stale beer after
    noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack
    of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
    who talked continuously seventy hours from park to
    pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook-
    lyn Bridge,
    lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping
    down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills
    off Empire State out of the moon,
    yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts
    and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks
    and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
    whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days
    and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the
    Synagogue cast on the pavement,
    who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a
    trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic
    City Hall,
    suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind-
    ings and migraines of China under junk-with-
    drawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
    who wandered around and around at midnight in the
    railroad yard wondering where to go, and went,
    leaving no broken hearts,
    who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing
    through snow toward lonesome farms in grand-
    father night,
    who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep-
    athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in-
    stinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
    who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis-
    ionary indian angels who were visionary indian
    angels,
    who thought they were only mad when Baltimore
    gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
    who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Okla-
    homa on the impulse of winter midnight street
    light smalltown rain,
    who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston
    seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the
    brilliant Spaniard to converse about America
    and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship
    to Africa,
    who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving
    behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees
    and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire
    place Chicago,
    who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the
    F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist
    eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incom-
    prehensible leaflets,
    who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting
    the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
    who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union
    Square weeping and undressing while the sirens
    of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed
    down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also
    wailed,
    who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked
    and trembling before the machinery of other
    skeletons,
    who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight
    in policecars for committing no crime but their
    own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
    who howled on their knees in the subway and were
    dragged off the roof waving genitals and manu-
    scripts,
    who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly
    motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
    who blew and were blown by those human seraphim,
    the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean
    love,
    who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose
    gardens and the grass of public parks and
    cemeteries scattering their semen freely to
    whomever come who may,
    who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up
    with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath
    when the blond & naked angel came to pierce
    them with a sword,
    who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate
    the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar
    the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb
    and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but
    sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden
    threads of the craftsman's loom,
    who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of
    beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a can-
    dle and fell off the bed, and continued along
    the floor and down the hall and ended fainting
    on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and
    come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
    who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling
    in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning
    but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sun
    rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked
    in the lake,
    who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad
    stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these
    poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver-joy
    to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls
    in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses'
    rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with
    gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely pet-
    ticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station
    solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
    who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in
    dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and
    picked themselves up out of basements hung
    over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third
    Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemploy-
    ment offices,
    who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on
    the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the
    East River to open to a room full of steamheat
    and opium,
    who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment
    cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime
    blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall
    be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
    who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested
    the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of
    Bowery,
    who wept at the romance of the streets with their
    pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
    who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the
    bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in
    their lofts,
    who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned
    with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded
    by orange crates of theology,
    who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty
    incantations which in the yellow morning were
    stanzas of gibberish,
    who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht
    & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable
    kingdom,
    who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for
    an egg,
    who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot
    for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks
    fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
    who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccess-
    fully, gave up and were forced to open antique
    stores where they thought they were growing
    old and cried,
    who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits
    on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse
    & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments
    of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the
    fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinis-
    ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the
    drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
    who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap-
    pened and walked away unknown and forgotten
    into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley
    ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
    who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of
    the subway window, jumped in the filthy Pas-
    saic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street,
    danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed
    phonograph records of nostalgic European
    1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and
    threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans
    in their ears and the blast of colossal steam
    whistles,
    who barreled down the highways of the past journeying
    to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude
    watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
    who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out
    if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had
    a vision to find out Eternity,
    who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who
    came back to Denver & waited in vain, who
    watched over Denver & brooded & loned in
    Denver and finally went away to find out the
    Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
    who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying
    for each other's salvation and light and breasts,
    until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
    who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for
    impossible criminals with golden heads and the
    charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet
    blues to Alcatraz,
    who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky
    Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys
    or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or
    Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the
    daisychain or grave,
    who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hyp
    notism & were left with their insanity & their
    hands & a hung jury,
    who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism
    and subsequently presented themselves on the
    granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads
    and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding in-
    stantaneous lobotomy,
    and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin
    Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psycho-
    therapy occupational therapy pingpong &
    amnesia,
    who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic
    pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
    returning years later truly bald except for a wig of
    blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible mad
    man doom of the wards of the madtowns of the
    East,
    Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid
    halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rock-
    ing and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench
    dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a night-
    mare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the
    moon,
    with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book
    flung out of the tenement window, and the last
    door closed at 4. A.M. and the last telephone
    slammed at the wall in reply and the last fur-
    nished room emptied down to the last piece of
    mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted
    on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that
    imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of
    hallucination
    ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and
    now you're really in the total animal soup of
    time
    and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed
    with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use
    of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrat-
    ing plane,
    who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space
    through images juxtaposed, and trapped the
    archangel of the soul between 2 visual images
    and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun
    and dash of consciousness together jumping
    with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna
    Deus
    to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human
    prose and stand before you speechless and intel-
    ligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet con-
    fessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm
    of thought in his naked and endless head,
    the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown,
    yet putting down here what might be left to say
    in time come after death,
    and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in
    the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the
    suffering of America's naked mind for love into
    an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone
    cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
    with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered
    out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand
    years.

    II

    What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open
    their skulls and ate up their brains and imagi-
    nation?
    Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob
    tainable dollars! Children screaming under the
    stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men
    weeping in the parks!
    Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the
    loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy
    judger of men!
    Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the
    crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of
    sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment!
    Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stun-
    ned governments!
    Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose
    blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers
    are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a canni-
    bal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking
    tomb!
    Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows!
    Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long
    streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose fac-
    tories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose
    smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!
    Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch
    whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch
    whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch
    whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen!
    Moloch whose name is the Mind!
    Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream
    Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in
    Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
    Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom
    I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch
    who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy!
    Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch!
    Light streaming out of the sky!
    Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs!
    skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic
    industries! spectral nations! invincible mad
    houses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
    They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pave-
    ments, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to
    Heaven which exists and is everywhere about
    us!
    Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies!
    gone down the American river!
    Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole
    boatload of sensitive bullshit!
    Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions!
    gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! De-
    spairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides!
    Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on
    the rocks of Time!
    Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the
    wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell!
    They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving!
    carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the
    street!

    III

    Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland
    where you're madder than I am
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where you must feel very strange
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where you imitate the shade of my mother
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where you've murdered your twelve secretaries
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where you laugh at this invisible humor
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where we are great writers on the same dreadful
    typewriter
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where your condition has become serious and
    is reported on the radio
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where the faculties of the skull no longer admit
    the worms of the senses
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where you drink the tea of the breasts of the
    spinsters of Utica
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the
    harpies of the Bronx
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where you scream in a straightjacket that you're
    losing the game of the actual pingpong of the
    abyss
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul
    is innocent and immortal it should never die
    ungodly in an armed madhouse
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where fifty more shocks will never return your
    soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a
    cross in the void
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where you accuse your doctors of insanity and
    plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the
    fascist national Golgotha
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where you will split the heavens of Long Island
    and resurrect your living human Jesus from the
    superhuman tomb
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where there are twenty-five-thousand mad com-
    rades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where we hug and kiss the United States under
    our bedsheets the United States that coughs all
    night and won't let us sleep
    I'm with you in Rockland
    where we wake up electrified out of the coma
    by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the
    roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the
    hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls col-
    lapse O skinny legions run outside O starry
    spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is
    here O victory forget your underwear we're
    free
    I'm with you in Rockland
    in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-
    journey on the highway across America in tears
    to the door of my cottage in the Western night
     
  17. Abratax

    Abratax Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    America - allen ginsberg

    America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
    America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.
    I can't stand my own mind.
    America when will we end the human war?
    Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
    I don't feel good don't bother me.
    I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
    America when will you be angelic?
    When will you take off your clothes?
    When will you look at yourself through the grave?
    When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
    America why are your libraries full of tears?
    America when will you send your eggs to India?
    I'm sick of your insane demands.
    When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
    America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
    Your machinery is too much for me.
    You made me want to be a saint.
    There must be some other way to settle this argument.
    Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back it's sinister.
    Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
    I'm trying to come to the point.
    I refuse to give up my obsession.
    America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
    America the plum blossoms are falling.
    I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for
    murder.
    America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
    America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I'm not sorry.
    I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
    I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
    When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
    My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
    You should have seen me reading Marx.
    My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
    I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
    I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
    America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over
    from Russia.

    I'm addressing you.
    Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Time Magazine?
    I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
    I read it every week.
    Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
    I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
    It's always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie
    producers are serious. Everybody's serious but me.
    It occurs to me that I am America.
    I am talking to myself again.

    Asia is rising against me.
    I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
    I'd better consider my national resources.
    My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals
    an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles and hour and
    twentyfivethousand mental institutions.
    I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged who live in
    my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
    I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
    My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I'm a Catholic.

    America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
    I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his
    automobiles more so they're all different sexes
    America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
    America free Tom Mooney
    America save the Spanish Loyalists
    America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
    America I am the Scottsboro boys.
    America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they
    sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
    speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the
    workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party
    was in 1935 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother
    Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have
    been a spy.
    America you don're really want to go to war.
    America it's them bad Russians.
    Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
    The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power mad. She wants to take
    our cars from out our garages.
    Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader's Digest. her wants our
    auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
    That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers.
    Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
    America this is quite serious.
    America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
    America is this correct?
    I'd better get right down to the job.
    It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts
    factories, I'm nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
    America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
     
  18. jimmy84

    jimmy84 Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    Bunacë - Lengston Hjuz

    Sa qetësi,
    Çuditërisht qetësi
    Mbi ujra sot.

    Jo,siç duket,
    S`ndjell të mirë
    Një bunacë e tillë.
     
  19. jimmy84

    jimmy84 Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    Kino - Lengston Hjuz

    "Ruzvelt", "Renesans", "Alhambra"...
    Harlemi qesh me pallavrat,
    me lotët e krokodilit
    të artit të artit të krokodilit;
    se ne e dimë vetë;
    ililet në ekranë
    thjesht krokodilë janë.
    ......

    Perkthimi: Aurel Plasari
     
  20. jimmy84

    jimmy84 Primus registratum

    Re: Poezi te preferuara

    Epigram - Volter

    Një ditë, thellë një përroi, siç thonë,
    një gjarpër na kafshoi Zhan Feronë.
    Dhe a e dini ç`ndodhi?
    Qe gjarpri, ai që ngordhi!

    P: Agim Shehu
     

Shpërndajeni këtë faqe