Price, pjesme, intervjui...

[victory]

Albert Huffstickler

Love Song

In how many rooms
have I thought about you
in fifteen years?
In how many states?
In how many moods?
Knowing all the while
that you were still the same
and that I was the one
who left and the past
is past and not dead
but living and unretrievable.
Actually, you were
a shit most of the time
but so beautiful.
Sullen and unapproachable.
So was I.
You said I smoked too much.
Fuck you.
I paid the bills
while you went off to see
your old boyfriends.
Sometimes we’d go for coffee
and sit perfectly silent,
you sketching and me writing.
Those moments exist beyond time.

In how many rooms
have I thought about you
in fifteen years?
You were so beautiful.

--------------

[victory]

Jason Hardung

Small Silver Cross

Walking through the window of night
I carry a small silver cross in my drug
pocket given to me by a homeless
ex-boxer I was seventeen and impressionable
and he appeared from the box car shadows of the Union
Pacific train yards in Cheyenne like the spirit
of Tom Horn but with a limp black eye and Mick accent
I carry this cross not because
I believe in Jesus but because
I believe in shiny things.

The human heart sets into motion
the plastic bag levitating in a corner
the addiction the paper planes the nickel barrel
between rotting teeth she was my heroin
I was her bitch she the hot devil
coursing through my veins the blood river
and the canoes of native American warriors
rushing ashore have become more than
the white man's folklore
it's a movement in my gut
a battle cry an inevitable genocide
It's been four months and you are still
eating my bones with your disease
I don't give a fuck about the sun anymore
Whether it's up or down
if it shines on my face in the morning
if the roses never grow again.

I blow smoke in winter's face
pick up a stick from the sidewalk
peel the skin back with my thumbnail
and keep walking until I'm somewhere else
drop the stick so when it comes to
it has to start over like the rest of
the broken and the damned.

[victory]

Jason Hardung

D.A. LEVY WILL NEVER BE MADE OF MARBLE

I made love to a juke box in the ever open cafe.
Rode my bicycle through dreams deferred.
Gazed up at angels while I layed in the park
came to a realization of chinese fireworks and rich men
in airplanes are not the sweet after
taste of freedom we fight for.
The rockets red glare has become
an allergy symptom and can be cured with
prescription eye drops.
I clicked Jack Ruby's slippers three times
but they never took me home.
They took me to the streets of Chicago
where Wesley Willis jammed on the keyboard
head butted me and yelled
ROCK
demons in silk shirts tangoed in his head.
Took me to Cleveland when it was still
smokestacks belching into the face of heaven.
Twenty seven is the age of icons
Jimi Janis Jim Kurt Tupac.
D.A. Levy had a year to go
to have his own statue
for pigeons to rest tired wings
before they became some bird more glorious.
Like a bald eagle
or a swan.
I'm a meadowlark hatched on the Wyoming
plains singing alone
singing puffing my yellow chest
until I am heard
singing the song of myself
singing for mornings
the hope that maybe
today will be a little better
than yesterday ever was.


THOUGHTS WHILE DRIFTING OFF IN A KANSAS CITY BACKYARD
(For John Dorsey)

Lightning bugs have asses
like shooting stars. Sleeping
in a Kansas City backyard I
reach for them.
They disappear
and pulse again
seconds from fingertips
and miles away.
I want to ride in airplanes
with propellers and die
like Buddy Holly did.
In horn rimmed glasses twisted metal
guitar strings and broken glass.
I am a negro league star.
A Satchel Page fastball.
A long bus ride
to obscurity.
A stand up bass loaded from
the back of a minivan
up the stairs the cash only bar blues.
Black and white pictures on the wall.
Signed like shaved pussy lips in smokey basements
jazz club bops and blows notes til six a.m.
Barbecue teeth and wonder bread eyes.
White people pay for soul
and go back home.
Open box cars open
to The Paseo rattle and roll
gentrification sounds too much
like genocide
or gentleman.
The beats the beards the carma
bums. Binging
down highways desert solitaire
monkey wrench gangs
in John Dorsey jackets
gas fume mirages
fucking up the system.
Burning out like the ass
of insects.
We never
go
home

[victory]

"Perfect purity is possible if you turn your life into a line of poetry written with a splash of blood."
— Yukio Mishima

[victory]

Philip Levine

The Mercy

The ship that took my mother to Ellis Island
Eighty-three years ago was named "The Mercy."
She remembers trying to eat a banana
without first peeling it and seeing her first orange
in the hands of a young Scot, a seaman
who gave her a bite and wiped her mouth for her
with a red bandana and taught her the word,
"orange," saying it patiently over and over.
A long autumn voyage, the days darkening
with the black waters calming as night came on,
then nothing as far as her eyes could see and space
without limit rushing off to the corners
of creation. She prayed in Russian and Yiddish
to find her family in New York, prayers
unheard or misunderstood or perhaps ignored
by all the powers that swept the waves of darkness
before she woke, that kept "The Mercy" afloat
while smallpox raged among the passengers
and crew until the dead were buried at sea
with strange prayers in a tongue she could not fathom.
"The Mercy," I read on the yellowing pages of a book
I located in a windowless room of the library
on 42nd Street, sat thirty-one days
offshore in quarantine before the passengers
disembarked. There a story ends. Other ships
arrived, "Tancred" out of Glasgow, "The Neptune"
registered as Danish, "Umberto IV,"
the list goes on for pages, November gives
way to winter, the sea pounds this alien shore.
Italian miners from Piemonte dig
under towns in western Pennsylvania
only to rediscover the same nightmare
they left at home. A nine-year-old girl travels
all night by train with one suitcase and an orange.
She learns that mercy is something you can eat
again and again while the juice spills over
your chin, you can wipe it away with the back
of your hands and you can never get enough.

[victory]

Philip Levine

Father

The long lines of diesels
groan toward evening
carrying off the breath
of the living.
The face of your house
is black,
it is your face, black
and fire bombed
in the first street wars,
a black tooth planted in the earth
of Michigan
and bearing nothing,
and the earth is black,
sick on used oils.

Did you look for me in that house
behind the sofa
where I had to be?
in the basement where the shirts
yellowed on hangers?
in the bedroom
where a woman lay her face
on a locked chest?
I waited
at windows the rain streaked
and no one told me.

I found you later
face torn
from The History of Siege,
eyes turned to a public wall
and gone
before I turned back, mouth
in mine and gone.
I found you whole
toward the autumn of my 43rd year
in this chair beside
a masonjar of dried zinnias
and I turned away.

I find you
in these tears, few,
useless and here at last.

Don't come back.

[victory]

....Hand in hand, we
will go forward toward nothing
while our clothes darken
and our faces stream
with the sweet waters
of heaven.


Philip Levine

The Rains

The river rises
and the rains keep coming.
My Papa says
it can't flood for
the water can run
away as fast as
it comes down. I believe
him because he's Papa
and because I'm afraid
ofwater I know I can't stop.
All day in school I
see the windows darken,
and hearing the steady drum
of rain, I wonder
if it wil1 ever stop
and how can I get home.

It did not flood.
I cannot now remember
how I got home.
I recall only that the house
was dark and cold, and I went
from room to room calling
out the names
of all those I lived with
and no one answered. For a time
I thought the waters had swept
them out to sea
and this was all I had. At last
I heard the door opening
downstairs and my brother
stamping his wet boots
on the mat.

Now when the autumn comes
I go alone
into the high mountains
or sometimes with my wife,
and we walk in silence
down the trails
of pine needles
and hear the winds
humming through the branches
the long dirge of the world.
Below us is the world
we cannot see, have come
not to see, soured
with years of never
giving enough, darkened
with oils and fire, the world
we could have come
to call home.

One day the rain
will find us far
from anything, crossing
the great meadows
the sun had hidden in.
Hand in hand, we
will go forward toward nothing
while our clothes darken
and our faces stream
with the sweet waters
of heaven. Your eyes,
suddenly deep and dark in that light,
will overflow with joy
or sadness, with all
you have no names for.
This is who you are.
That other life below
was what you dreamed
and I am the man beside you.

[Admir_1984]

Prica Miše Marića o Aleksi Šanticu, Pjesmi Emina, Emini, Mostaru.....

Ovaj text ide u moj arhiv kojeg svako malo vremena moram procitati

ALEKSA ŠANTIĆ
Emina


Desetu godišnjicu austrougarske okupacije Mostar dočekuje veći i ljepši nego što je ikad bio. Već tri godine dimi "Ćiro" za Metković, a prema Sarajevu tračnice su postavljene do Rame. Popravljeni su stari i izgrađeni novi putevi, koji Mostar spajaju sa svim mjestima u Hercegovini, sem dalekog Trebinja, a kiridžije lako stižu do Lijevna i Bugojna. Ćepenici na Velikoj Tepi zamjenjuju se prostranim, zidanim magazama. Uz Staru, Krivu i Oručevića ćupriju i četvrta je zakoračila preko Neretve. Početa je u turski vakat kao ćuprija, završena u novi, austrougarski 1883. kao "Franz Jozef Brucke". Godine 1888. most carskog imena se rekonstruiše i ukrašava. Te godine u Mostar, u posjetu, navraća nadvojvoda Rudolph sa suprugom Stefanijom. Čarsija se ne može nadiviti carskim kočijama, ali Muslimanima i Srbima nije potaman što je trg odvazda zvan Mejdan preimenovan u "Rudolph platz", a šetalište na desnoj u "Stefanijale". Na radost djece, a ibret starijih, održana je prva biciklistička trka na Novom godišnjem pazaru. Krajem godine Srbi slave dozvolu Zemaljske vlade iz Sarajeva za osnivanje Srpskog pjevačkog društva "Gusle", Hrvati Narodnog pjevačkog i glazbenog društva koje će tek kasnije dobiti ime "Hrvoje", a velika je radost i u kući imama i hafiza, Saliha Sefića.

Kratak, kaldrmisan sokak što s Glavne ulice zadihano sopće uz Bjelušine, Sefića je sokak. Posljednja kuća na dnu sokaka, kuća je imama i hafiza, Saliha Sefića. Mostar veoma uvažava pamet, ljudskost i komšiluk, pa je imam Sefić jednako poštovan kod sva tri naroda i sve tri konfesije. Kad mu se, nakon dva sina, rodi kćer, srce mu puno rahatluka, a kuća musafira. Rodbina i ahbabi ušuškavaju zlatnu medžediju pod dječiji jastučić, poznanici po čaršiji čestitaju:
- Nek ti je s hairom šćer, moj Salih.
Djevojčici dadoše ime Emina, a u kući Sefića mevlud se učio čitavu godinu...

Od rođenja Salih plaho pazi šćer. Mlađi sin je u mektebu, stariji pošao u ruždiju. Mati je povazdan u kući za bakračima i demirlijama, a čuje iz bašte:
- Elif, be, te, se, džim, ha, hi...
Posjeo Salih šćer na šćemliju, hoda oko nje i govori joj arapsku abecedu, a ona ponavlja... Kako je rasla, nauk se mjenjao:
- Muhamed pejgamber alejhiselam, Kasim ibn Abdulah pripadao je redu Hassim iz plemena Kurejss...
Nauk za naukom, godina za godinom. Zerdelije i djeca na jugu brzo zarude i dozrijevaju. S 13 Emina je djevojčurak, s 14 ćusta djevojka. Jednog petka, nakon džume, ču je Salih kako uz basamake pjevuši:

"Đul miriše, mila moja majko,
Čini mi se Omerova duša..."

Obrati se ženi:
- Jel ovo ova naša o Omeru i Mejremi?
- Biće da jest.
- Zacurila nam šćer?
- I meni se čini.

A Emina Sefićeva baš zacurila. Kad silazi na česmu, uz Glavnu ulicu, nema muška, a da se ne okrene. Okretati se za ženskom u Mostaru ni prije ni tad nije adet, al' muško je vazda bilo i ostalo muško... Po sokacima i mahalama krenu priča o hafizovoj šćeri, ljepotici. Kako joj bujna kosa spletena u teške zlatnosmeđe pletenice igra po leđima; kako su joj oči od žežene kadife, usne - zrele trešnje, alice; dva reda zuba - dvi niske bisera; kako joj je Allah podario lice zarudjele breskve; kako joj pod bijelom košuljom zakopčanom sedef - pucetom do pod vrat i pod svilenim, cvjetnim dimijama igra jedro, zdravo tijelo, tanko u struku, mamno u hodu.
"Nije žensko", uzdiše muslimanska mlađarija. "Emina Sefićeva je dženetska hurija."
Pravoslavci i katolici ćućore:
- Anđeo na zemlji, pa to ti je!
- Emina, šćeri - savjetuje je otac Salih - kad si na izvana, oči preda se. Kliska je kaldrma, a nanule se lako taliznu.
Ona obara pogled pred babom, a svaka joj njegova - k’o iz musafa...

Pedesetak metara uniže od Sefića sokaka, na Glavnoj ulici, kuća je Svetozara Ćorovića, za kojeg je udata Aleksina sestra Persa. Sestru Aleksa neobično voli, njoj se ispovijeda, dijeli s njom rijetke sreće i česte nesreće. Sveto mu je srodnik po lirskoj duši i pobratim, te ih rado i često posjećuje. Silazeći s Brankovca, Aleksa susreće imamovu kćer. Za djevojčetom se pjesnik ne okreće. A rano dozrelu, omamljujuću ljepotu, zapaža. U jednoj od besanih, vrelih noći 1903. što mirišu na behar i čežnju, grli djevojče, stihom. I njen ibrik i baštu s đulom i s jasminom, i pletenice teške, razigrane i miris te kose "kao zumbul plavi". Pjesmu objavljuju u Beogradu, a hor "Gusala" premijerno izvodi "Eminu" u prostorijima na Suhodolini, pod dirigentskom palicom pjesnika i kompozitora, Alekse. Pjesmu čaršija hvali:
- Plaho je pjevna; ubila se za sevdaha... E, beli je sva naša, mostarska... Golemo! ... Aferim, Aleksa, care!
Samo Pero, koji je postao glava i kasa Šantića kuće, osu po njemu:
- Ti, brate, vazda istu pjesmu k'o Švabo traj-la-la. Nikad se dozvati pameti. Prvo ona šokica, Tomlinovićka, a sad Emina Sefićeva. Tomlinovićku nekako da ti i oprostimo, mladost - ludost, a i kuferaši su, nije domaća. Došla - prošla. Al' ovo sa Salihovom šćeri, prekardašio si debelo!
- Pokazaću ti pismo iz Beograda, mole da nešto lijepo napišem iz muslimanskog života, pa sam...
Pero podiže ruku, znak da zaćuti.
"Nije ovo više onaj moj bracuka, Pero, u svemu se na u Adžu izmetnuo. Nema mi druge nego saslušati litaniju!" - pomiri se, a Pero nastavi :
- Pa si zabrlj'o, moj Aleksa, da ne može gore. Stariji sam ti brat, ne ljuti se na me, niko ti više dobra od mene ne želi, ali ti moram po duši reći šta i kako ja, a bogami i čaršija, sve to vidi. Imade li ti išta lijepo iz muslimanskog života za opjevat', nego kako imama Sefića šćer vrcka kroz bašču s ibrikom u ruci? Lijepo žensko nije grijeh pogledati, ali preko tuđih taraba ćuriti i telaliti to po novinama - ne ide. I to ti malo, okren'o si pjevanije po priredbama. Gdje će ti duša, to je tvoja briga. Moja je briga obraz Šantića. OBRAZ, razumijes li? Od kad je djed Petar, bog da mu duši prosti, sišao u ovu čaršiju, mi smo se, Šantići, s Muslimanima lijepo pazili i još pazimo. Pošteni su ljudi, dobre komšije. I stalne mušterije... A ti baš zapeo da nas istjeraš iz ove ljepote! Gdje ćemo mi, Šantići? Na konja, pa nazad u Bogodol, il' u Trst, na brod, pa u Ameriku? Ne valja nijedno. Jedva smo se kutarisali one vukojebine pod Čabuljom, gdje vuk i međed jedu ovcu, a sušica i sifilis čovjeka. A u Ameriku kako je ko otiš'o, nije se vratio. Ako nije šta stek'o ko da ga na ovoj zemlji nikad nije bilo, a ako je i stek'o opet se vrati u tegli od kiselih krastavaca; ni u prahu mu se tamo ne ostaje. A sad ćeš nam ti bruku i šuhu na kuću navući. Nikad odrasti, moj braco, nikad se pameti dozvati!

- Ne znam, Pero, šta je tu bruka. I ne znam šta to ima ljepše u životu od čiste ljepote. A čista ljepota je vizija, san... Ne gledaš očima, ne dodiruješ rukom. Samo je dušom možeš osjetiti, a pjesmom reći.
- E, sad me vučeš za jezik, pa da ti kazem. Te ublehe o vizijama ostavi onim dangalacima što ti štampaju pjesmuljke od kojih živ rob haira nema. Vidim ti po očima, nije ti pravo što ja ovako, iskreno, a kome ću, ako neću bratu. Ljutio se, ne ljutio, još ti jednom ponavljam i molim te: okani se ćorava posla. Lijepo je što držiš do Muslimana, a i oni do tebe. Poštuju te kao ni jedno kršteno čeljade u čaršiji k'o da si, bože me 'prosti, rođen njihov. I za rađu je dobro. Al' se okani pjevanija o Muslimankama. Ja se sad sklanjam na ulici ispred imama Sefića, nemam obraza čovjeku u oči pogledati... Ne valja! Nikako ne valja! Ovo će, velim ti, na veliku bruku izaći.

Nije izašlo. Salih Sefić je i dalje ostao mušterija u Šanitića magazi, muslimanski Mostar nije zamjerio, Emina se sa 16 udala za Avdagu Koludera, trgovca, a niz mostarske sokake, uz Stefanijino šetalište, po sijelima - prvo tiho, a onda sve glasnije, poteče pjesma:

"Sinoć, kad se vraćah iz topla hamama,
Prođoh pokraj bašte staroga imama;
Kad tamo, u bašti, u hladu jasmina,
S ibrikom u ruci stajaše Emina..."

Sa trinaestim od četrnaestoro Eminine djece, sinom Besimom i snahom Enisom, listam porodični album, predratne 1990.
- Nažalost, nema fotografija iz majčine mladosti. Em nije bio adet žensku čeljadetu da se često fotografiše, em nije voljela, em je odnio rat. Ostala je samo ova jedna. - pokazuje mi Besim.
Ta jedna nije original. Reprodukcija uljanog portreta. Portret je sačinio slikar Kesler po originalnom fotosu koji je nestao u plamenu Drugog rata. Naručio ga je her Griner, glavni gradski baštovan u vakat gradonačelnika Mujage Komadine. Her Griner bijaše vješt baštovan, a pažljiv suprug. Poklonio je platno supruzi, zaljubljenoj u pjesmu, za zlatan pir.
- Ja sam se rodio mnogo poslije pjesme - govori Besim. - Ali mi je stariji brat, Alija, pričao kad se pjesma prvi put pomenula u kući. Otac se vratio s puta, po Bosni. Pa je pripovijedao kako je zanoćio, u hanu, u Bugojnu. Kako je tamo bila muzika. I kako je čuo sevdalinku.
- Ime je tvoje - obratio se majci - a rekoše da je spjevao naš Mostarac, Aleksa Šantić. Ćusta mu pjesma.
- Mati je odćutala, pozabavila se oko šporeta. Inače, oko pjesme nije voljela razgovarati. Samo jednom, kad sam se zamomčio, pa me raja zapitkivala kako se osjećam kao sin Lijepe Emine iz pjesme, pitah majku sjeća li se Alekse? Govorila je:
- Svi su u Mostaru znali ko je Aleksa Šantić. Sretala sam ga često, kad bih išla u mekteb, u skolu, jal' na česmu. Rijeci razmjenili nikad nismo. Vidjala bih ga izdaleka, skockan kao da je sad iz Beča došao. Najviše se cipela sjećam. Uvijek uglancane, sjaje, a po njima pale panatale, porezati bi se mogao kako su opeglane... Jednom sam čula kako neko pjeva u Ćorovića avliji. Pjevao je "Kara majka sina Ahmeta" uz violinu, tamburicu i šargiju. Pjevao je jedan glas, žalovito. Kasnije sam čula da mu je to bila najdraža pjesma, pa sad mislim kako je on pjevao. Zagledala ga u prolazu, sine, velim ti, nisam. Ali se pričalo da je bio lijep čovjek. Mostarske cure su sknadile i potajno pjevale:

"Kujundžijo, tako ti zanata,
sakuj meni junaka od zlata,
na priliku Alekse Šantića."

Kad sam se udala i došla na Carinu, u ovu kuću, prolazio je ov'da; tu su im na broju četeres' bile "Gusle". Vazda je bio u muškom društvu, a govorilo se kako mu prijatelji odsvukud dolaze. Ima jedna priča, pričala mi kóna s Luke, Almasa, rasle smo zajedno, nije do onih koja bi izmislila. Priča: kad se od Ćorovića trebao preseliti u Ćirića sokak, malo uniže od Lučkog mosta, prozori su gledali u avliju nekog od naših, znala sam i koga... Elenejse, vele da je Aleksa prije useljenja naredio zazidati prozore; ženska su djeca bila u komšiluku. Znao je šta je haram i to mu čaršija nikad nije zaboravila.
- Eto, to mi je mati rekla tad i nikad više za života na tu temu riječi nije prozborila. A ja moram dodati još jednu. Kako me ona raja stalno zapitkivala o pjesmi, jednog dana odem pravo na vrata Ćorovića kuće. Persa, sestra Aleksina, bila još živa, a Svetozar je umro od tuberkuloze odmah poslije onog rata. Pa joj je i kćer pokupila tuberkuloza, ostala je sama k’o ćuk, nesretnica. Otvori mi vrata, sva je u crnini. Kažem tako i tako, ja sam sin njihove bivše komšinice iz Sefića sokaka, i predstavim se. Obradova se. "A, ti si Eminin - veli - živ mi i zdrav bio. Samo izvoli! Pita hoćemo li u kuću, il' u avliju? Lijepo je vrijeme, kažem, u avliju bih. Avlija, sređena, puna cvijeća. Sjednemo na klupu, znam da je on sjedio na njoj, godra mi. Zaustih da kažem zašto sam došao, ne stigoh, pita jesam li za kafu il himber od drenjaka. Nema limuna, a himber je domaći, nevesinjski. Donese leden himber. Pita kako mati i otac sa zdravljem, koliko nas je djece, a pripaljuje cigar na cigar. U neko doba kažem što sam došao: volio bih vidjeti rukopis pjesme o majci, čuo sam da ona sve čuva. Čuvam, veli, sad ću ja. Ode, eto je nosi nekoliko kutija. Kutije su od cipela, kartonske. Spusti na sto. Vidim na onim kutijama piše: Svetina pisma, Aleksina pisma, slike, Aleksine sveske... Otvori, prebira, izvadi jednu svesku, lista. Sve je pisano crnim mastilom, dosta je križano, prepravljano. I nađe mi "Eminu". Pa nađe i drugu. Obje su prepravljane. Uzmem pa čitam, opet mi godra, ne pitaj. Poslije kad je otvorena Šantićeva soba, otišao bih ponekad sam il’ s rajom. Rukopis je bio povećan i stajao na zidu... A da ti i ovo ne zaboravim. Pokazivala mi je slike kćeri, Nedice. I pjesme što joj je Aleksa pisao, dječije. Sve ih je pisao na razglednicama, s putovanja. A jedno pisamce Aleksino Svetozaru mi je više reklo kakav je čovjek taj Aleksa bio nego sve što je o njemu napisano i što će se još napisati. Ne želim da te uvrijedim, ali ja tako mislim. Nije ni pisamce, ceduljica od pola lista istrgnutog iz trgovačke knjige Šantića. Na poleđini je poruka. Bolestan je, pa moli Svetu da odnese 50 kruna nekoj muslimanskoj porodici u Donju Mahalu, vratiće on to Sveti čim se pridigne. "Udaju kćer, piše, a ti znaš koja je to sirotinja." I još dodaje da ne govori ko je poslao. E, vidiš, tu bi poruku trebalo danas povećati pa oblijepiti čaršiju. Da se zna kakve je ljude ovaj naš Mostar rađao. Meni je ta poruka čitava knjiga...



Izvini, ovo sam ti morao ispričati, a sad da se vratimo pjesmi. Kad bi krenula na radiju, mati je izlazila nekim poslom u baštu, nekud... A stizala su na našu adresu stalno pisma, dopisnice, razglednice. S pozdravima od nepoznata svijeta. Adresirano: Za lijepu Eminu. Rahmetli stari bi se samo smješkao, a ona obarala pogled, rumenila. Nama, djeci, sve je to bilo i smiješno i muteber. Jednom banu neki mornar. Donio kafe, šećera, došao da je pozdravi. Svraćali su ljudi, najviše mladi. Vrata nikom nije zatvorila, ugostila bi ih, a razgovarala o običnim stvarima.
- Kad joj pomenu pjesmu, ćutala bi i smjeskala se. - dodaje supruga Besimova, Enisa. - Evo, vidite, i na ovoj fotografiji u zimu '60. nasmiješena je. Pred fotografisanje sam je počešljala. Nigdje sijede. Imala je gustu kosu kao djevojka, nije češalj htio kroz nju. Sedam dana kasnije nije se probudila. Čitav je život pamtim sa smiješkom i otišla je nasmiješena. I kao mejt, bila je lijepa, prelijepa, rahmet joj duši.
- Kad je mati otisla na ahiret - govori Besim dok pobožno sklapa porodični album - radio je objavio, novine. Stigle su stotine i stotine telegrama sa izrazima saučešća iz svih krajeva Jugoslavije. Od prijatelja i poznanika, ali i od ljudi koje nikad nit' čuli, nit' vidjeli. Čak se i onaj mornar s broda javio. Zato sam ja zahvalan Aleksi Šantiću, što je moju majku sačuvao zauvijek mladom i lijepom. A moram vam reći i ovo. Prvi i jedini put u životu uvrijedili su majku i mene, pa i Aleksu, kad su počele ove naconalne stranke. U penziji sam, šta ću, odem u frontu, razbacimo tavle, ubijem vrijeme. Sve je tamo go đuturum, a čim si đuturum namah si i ters. Te se lako rashorcamo i poinatimo. Poinatim se s onim jednim, nejse, nije važno ime, kad će ti on meni: "Šta je, Besime, šta ti pametuješ, tebe je oni Vlah, Aleksa, napravio." Znam ga od kad za sebe znam, znam da ne misli tako, izvinuo mi se poslije, ali džaba. U što se izmetnu onakav Mostar, bože moj? Ružan je vakat došao, a sve me strah da ide i gori.

Lijepa Emina je posljednja podigla svog pjesnika sa samrtne postelje. Čuo je, iz bašte, pjesmu. Sestra Persa i služavka Đurda su mu pomogle do prozora. Dolje, u bašti nad Neretvom, horovi "Gusala", "Hrvoja" i sarajevske "Sloge", pjevali su "Eminu"
"Nisu me zaboravili, nisu me zaboravili" - jecao je teško, kroz suze, sjećala se Persa.

Nakon drugog rata, Mostarka iz Donje Mahale, Sevda Katica je dopjevala, a Mostarac Himzo Polovina otpjevao:

"Umro stari pjesnik, umrla Emina,
ostala je pusta bašta od jasmina.
Salomljen je ibrik, uvelo je cvijeće,
pjesma o Emini nikad umrijet neće."

Niko od Eminine djece više nije živ. On se nije ženio, izrodio je samo pjesme. Eminino prapotomstvo živi rasuto svijetom. Aleksino skupljeno u knjigama. A pjesmi je ostalo da se pjeva... I nikad posijedi.

EMINA

Sinoć, kad se vratih iz topla hamama,
Prođoh pokraj bašte staroga imama.
Kad tamo, u bašti, u hladu jasmina,
S ibrikom u ruci stajaše Emina.

Ja, kakva je, pusta! Tako mi imana,
Stid je ne bi bilo da je kod sultana!
Pa još kada šeće i plećima kreće...
- Ni hodžin mi zapis više pomoć' neće!...

Ja joj nazvah selam. Al', moga mi dina,
Ne šće ni da čuje lijepa Emina,
No u srebren ibrik zahitila vode,
Pa po bašti đule zalivati ode.

S grana vjetar duhnu pa niz pleći puste
Rasplete joj one pletenice guste;
Zamirisa kosa, ko zumbuli plavi,
A meni se krenu bururet u glavi.

Malo ne posrnuh, mojega mi dina,
Al' meni ne dođe lijepa Emina.
Samo me je jednom pogledala mrko,
Niti haje, alčak, što za njome crko'...

Aleksa Šantić (1903.)

Milenko Mišo Marić

Text preuzet sa stranice http://www.barikada.com/vremeplov/mosta ... _emina.php

[victory]

Vesna Parun

Za sve su kriva djetinjstva naša

Izrasli smo sami kao biljke.
I sada smo postali istraživači
zapuštenih predjela mašte
nenavikli na poslušnost zlu.

Iznikli smo pokraj drumova
i s nama rastao je strah naš
od divljih kopita koja će nas pregaziti
i od kamena međašnih koji će razdvojiti
našu mladost.

Nitko od nas nema dvije cijele ruke.
Dva netaknuta oka. I srce
u kojem se nije zaustavio jauk.

Svijet je u nas ulazio neskladno
i ranjavao naša čela
zveketom svojih ubojitih istina
i bukom zvijezda zakašnjelih.

Starimo. A bajke idu uz nas
kao stado za ognjem u daljini.
I pjesme su nam takve kao i mi.
Oteščale i tužne.

[victory]

Robert Frost

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

[Merlyn]

Jaz sem te čakal



Jaz sem te čakal

ob poznem mraku

in z mano so čakali

beli cvetovi

in tam nad vrhovi

so tiho plakali

mehki glasovi

oddaljenih strun.

......................

Ivan Cankar

[victory]

Ted Joans

The .38

I hear the man downstairs slapping the hell out of his stupid wife again
I hear him push and shove her around the overcrowded room
I hear his wife scream and beg for mercy
I hear him tell her there is not mercy
I hear the blows as they land on her beautiful body
I hear glasses and pots and pans falling
I hear her fleeing from the room
I hear her fleeing from the room
I hear them running up the stairs
I hear her outside my door
I hear him bang her head on my door
I hear him trying to drag her away from my door
I hear her hands desperate on my doorknob
I hear the blow of her head against my door
I hear him drag her down the stairs
I hear her head bounce from step to step
I hear them again in their room
I hear a loud smack across her face (I guess)
I hear her groan – then
I hear the eerie silence
I hear him open the top drawer of his bureau (the .38 lives there)
I hear the fast beat of my heart
I hear the drops of perspiration fall from my brow
I hear him yell I warned you
I hear him say damn you I warned you and now it’s too late
I hear the loud report of the thirty eight-caliber revolver then
I her it again and again the Smith and Wesson
I hear the bang bang bang of four death dealing bullets
I hear my heart beat faster and louder – then again
I hear the eerie silence
I hear him walk out of their overcrowded room
I hear him walk up the steps
I hear him come toward my door
I hear his hand on my doorknob
I hear the doorknob click
I hear the door slowly open
I hear his step into my room
I hear the click of the thirty eight before the firing pin hits the bullet
I hear the loud blast of the powder exploding in the chamber of the .38
I hear the heavy lead noise of the bullet swiftly cutting its way through the barrel of the .38
I hear it emerge from space from the .38
I hear the bullet of death flying toward my head the .38
I hear its weird whistle the .38
I hear it give off a steamlike noise when it cuts through my sweat the .38
I hear it singe my skin as it enters my head the .38 and
I hear death saying, Hello I’m here!

[victory]

Ted Joans

The Truth

If you should see
a man walking
down a crowded street
talking aloud
to himself
don’t run
in the opposite direction
but run toward him
for he is a POET!

You have NOTHING to fear
from the poet
but the TRUTH

[victory]

Peter Handke

Song of Childhood

When the child was a child
It walked with its arms swinging,
wanted the brook to be a river,
the river to be a torrent,
and this puddle to be the sea.

When the child was a child,
it didn’t know that it was a child,
everything was soulful,
and all souls were one.

When the child was a child,
it had no opinion about anything,
had no habits,
it often sat cross-legged,
took off running,
had a cowlick in its hair,
and made no faces when photographed.

When the child was a child,
It was the time for these questions:
Why am I me, and why not you?
Why am I here, and why not there?
When did time begin, and where does space end?
Is life under the sun not just a dream?
Is what I see and hear and smell
not just an illusion of a world before the world?
Given the facts of evil and people.
does evil really exist?
How can it be that I, who I am,
didn’t exist before I came to be,
and that, someday, I, who I am,
will no longer be who I am?

When the child was a child,
It choked on spinach, on peas, on rice pudding,
and on steamed cauliflower,
and eats all of those now, and not just because it has to.

When the child was a child,
it awoke once in a strange bed,
and now does so again and again.
Many people, then, seemed beautiful,
and now only a few do, by sheer luck.

It had visualized a clear image of Paradise,
and now can at most guess,
could not conceive of nothingness,
and shudders today at the thought.

When the child was a child,
It played with enthusiasm,
and, now, has just as much excitement as then,
but only when it concerns its work.

When the child was a child,
It was enough for it to eat an apple, … bread,
And so it is even now.

When the child was a child,
Berries filled its hand as only berries do,
and do even now,
Fresh walnuts made its tongue raw,
and do even now,
it had, on every mountaintop,
the longing for a higher mountain yet,
and in every city,
the longing for an even greater city,
and that is still so,
It reached for cherries in topmost branches of trees
with an elation it still has today,
has a shyness in front of strangers,
and has that even now.
It awaited the first snow,
And waits that way even now.

When the child was a child,
It threw a stick like a lance against a tree,
And it quivers there still today.

[kmosst]

Posvećeno pismo; Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Kad bi Bog na trenutak zaboravio da sam marioneta
i darovao mi nešto malo života,
iskoristio bi ovo vrijeme najbolje kako znam.

Vjerojatno ne bih rekao sve o čemu razmišljam,
ali sasvim sigurno bih porazmislio o svemu što kažem.
Cijenio bi stvari prema njihovom značenju,
a ne prema njihovoj vrijednosti.
Spavao bih malo, vise bih sanjao,
znam da svaku minutu sa zatvorenim očima gubimo 60 sekundi svjetla.
Hodao bi kad se drugi zaustave,
budio bi se kad drugi spavaju.

Kad bi mi Bog darovao mrvicu života, obukao bi se jednostavno,
okrenuo se k Suncu, otkrivajući ne samo svoje tijelo, ali i svoju dušu.
Uvjeravao bih ljude, kako se varaju,
kad misle da se u starosti nije moguće zaljubiti.
Ne znaju da stare baš zato što izbjegavaju ljubav!

Djeci bi napravio krila,
ali uzeo bi im ih dok se ne nauče letjeti.
Starijim osobama bi kazao da smrt ne dolazi zajedno sa starošću
već s napuštenošću.
Toliko stvari bi se naučio od vas, ljudi...

Naučio sam da svi žele živjeti na vrhu planine,
zaboravljajući da se istinska sreća skriva u
samom načinu penjanja na vrh.
Naučio sam da kad novorođeno dijete
uhvati svojom malom ručicom očev prst, drži ga zauvijek.
Naučio sam da čovjek ima pravo gledati na drugoga odozgo
samo onda kad mu hoće pomoći da se podigne.

Toliko je stvari što sam se od vas mogao naučiti,
ali u stvarnosti nemam baš puno od toga, jer kad me polegnu u
grob, to ću zaboraviti.

Govori uvijek što osjetiš, a čini što misliš.

Kad bi znao da te danas posljednji put vidim pospanu,
snažno bi te zagrlio i molio se Bogu
da mi dozvoli biti tvojim anđelom čuvarom.
Kad bi znao da su to posljednje minute što te vidim,
rekao bih ti 'volim te' i ne bi glupo pretpostavljao da to znaš.

Uvijek ima nekakvo sutra
i život nam daje mogućnost učiniti dobro djelo,
ali danas je sve što mi ostaje,
htio bih ti reći da te veoma volim.
Sutra nema nitko zagarantirano-niti mladi, niti stari.
Možda danas posljednji put promatraš one koje voliš.
Zato nemoj biti neodlučan, učini to danas,
jer ako se pokaže da sutrašnji dan ne dočekaš,
žaliti ćeš za danom u kojem ti je nedostajalo vrijeme
za jedan osmijeh, za jedan poljubac,
da si bio prezauzet da bi im prenio posljednje želje.

Budi stalno blizu onih koje voliš,
govori im na glas kako ih trebaš, kako ih ljubiš
i budi prema njima dobar;
nađi vremena i reci im 'žao mi je','oprosti','molim te','hvala'
i sve ostale riječi ljubavi koje poznaješ.
Nitko neće pamtiti tvoje skrivene misli.
Zato moli Boga za snagu i mudrost da bi ih mogao izraziti.
Pokaži svojim prijateljima i bližnjima
kako su ti veoma potrebni.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez 74-godišnji kolumbijski pisac, dobitnik Nobelove nagrade, boluje od raka. Povukao se iz javnog života, a svojim prijateljima poslao je "Posvećeno pismo".

[kmosst]

ovo gornje od Marquesa neodoljivo me posjeti na:

Indexi - Da sam ja netko

Da sam ja netko,
pozvao bih sve djecake,
dao bih im igracke i
pustio ih da se cijeli dan
igraju i jure.

Radili bi divne stvari,
prekratki bi bili dani
voljeli bi svoje skole djaci
da sam ja netko.

Svim majkama bih izbrisao bore,
ucinio da ocevi ih vole,
davnu ljubav da im vrate,
i da mirno zive svoje sate,
da sam ja netko.

Ne bi, ne bi ljudi zivot proklinjali,
sve bi ruze zeni poklanjali,
kako bi se zivjelo i kako bi se voljelo,
i kako bi dobro bilo,
kako bi se zivjelo i kako bi se voljelo
i kako bi dobro bilo
da sam ja netko.

Svim majkama bih izbrisao bore,
ucinio da ocevi ih vole,
davnu ljubav da im vrate
i da mirno zive svoje sate
da sam ja netko.

Ne bi, ne bi ljudi zivot proklinjali
sve bi ruze zeni poklanjali,
kako bi se zivjelo i kako bi se voljelo
i kako bi dobro bilo,
kako bi se zivjelo i kako bi se voljelo
i kako bi dobro bilo
da sam ja netko

[victory]

Boris Vian

I Wouldn't Want To Die (Je voudrais pas crever)

Before having known
The black mexican dogs
Who sleep without dreaming
The butt-naked monkeys
Gobbling up tropics
The silver spiders in
Webs riddled with bubbles
I wouldn't want to die
Not knowing if the moon
Behind its fake nickel look
Has a sharper side
If the sun is cold
If the four seasons
Are really only four
Not having tried
To wear a dress
On the boulevards
Not having peeped
Through a sewer peephole
Not having put my dick
Inside weirdo corners
I wouldn't want to end
Without experiencing leprosy
Or the seven diseases
One catches over there
Neither the good nor the bad
Would cause me some sorrow
If if if I knew that
I would get it firsthand
And there is also
Everything I know
Everything I like
That I know that I like
The green bottom of the sea
Where the seaweeds waltz
On the rippled sand
The burnt grass in June
The crackling earth
The smell of conifers
And the kisses of the one
She's this and she's that
The belle here she comes
My bearcub, Ursula
I wouldn't want to die
Before having used up
Her mouth with my mouth
Her body with my hands
The rest with my eyes
I say no more one should
Remain polite
I wouldn't want to fade
Without someone inventing
Eternal roses
The two hour day
The sea at the mountain
The mountain at the sea
The end of pain
Newspapers in color
All children happy
And so many other tricks
That sleep inside the brains
Of genius engineers
Of jovial gardeners
Of concerned socialists
Of urban urbanists
And of thoughtful thinkers
So many things to see
To see and to hear
So much time to wait
Searching in the dark
And me I see the end
It swarms and it comes closer
With its ugly face
And it opens its arms to me
Like a cripplety frog
I wouldn't want to die
No sir no madam
Before having tested
The taste which torments me
The taste which is the strongest
I wouldn't want to die
Before having tasted
The flavour of death…

[victory]

Boris Vian

The Deserter

Mr. President
I'm writing you a letter
that perhaps you will read
If you have the time.

I've just received
my call-up papers
to leave for the front
Before Wednesday night.

Mr. President
I do not want to go
I am not on this earth
to kill wretched people.

It's not to make you mad
I must tell you
my decision is made
I am going to desert.

Since I was born
I have seen my father die
I have seen my brothers leave
and my children cry.

My mother has suffered so,
that she is in her grave
and she laughs at the bombs
and she laughs at the worms.

When I was a prisoner
they stole my wife
they stole my soul
and all my dear past.

Early tomorrow morning
I will shut my door
on these dead years
I will take to the road.

I will beg my way along
on the roads of France
from Brittany to Provence
and I will cry out to the people:

Refuse to obey
refuse to do it
don't go to war
refuse to go.

If blood must be given
go give your own
you are a good apostle
Mr. President.

If you go after me
warn your police
that I'll be unarmed
and that they can shoot.

[victory]

Boris Vian

Surprise Party

The turntable hacked up a melancholy blues
The air was heavy with dust and odors
Several zazous danced while holding to their hearts
Short klix with spasmodic behinds

In a closet, an amateur obstetrics couple
Delivered themselves to games full of art and naivete
Another in a corner attempted with ardor
Tonsil-coupling, to music.

Hands encountered one another under too-short skirts
Drunk, two lovebirds—(what if I said: two dodos?)
Looked everywhere for a bed; they were all full…

Let this happy youth screw itself
Why eradicate from them this impure manure
If their hope restricts itself to rubbing membranes?

[victory]

Philip Levine

An Extraordinary Morning

Two young men—you just might call them boys—
waiting for the Woodward streetcar to get
them downtown. Yes, they’re tired, they’re also
dirty, and happy. Happy because they’ve
finished a short work week and if they’re not rich
they’re as close to rich as they’ll ever be
in this town. Are they truly brothers?
You could ask the husky one, the one
in the black jacket he fills to bursting;
he seems friendly enough, snapping
his fingers while he shakes his ass and sings
“Sweet Lorraine,” or if you’re put off
by his mocking tone ask the one leaning
against the locked door of Ruby’s Rib Shack,
the one whose eyelids flutter in time
with nothing. Tell him it’s crucial to know
if in truth this is brotherly love. He won’t
get angry, he’s too tired for anger,
too relieved to be here, he won’t even laugh
though he’ll find you silly. It’s Thursday,
maybe a holy day somewhere else, maybe
the Sabbath, but these two, neither devout
nor cynical, have no idea how to worship
except by doing what they’re doing,
singing a song about a woman they love
merely for her name, breathing in and out
the used and soiled air they wouldn’t know
how to live without, and by filling
the twin bodies they’ve disguised as filth.

[victory]

What Fell Apart, What Came Together

Twenty years ago tomorrow, the Berlin Wall came down. The Op-Ed editors asked nine poets — Eastern European, American, Russian and German — to write new works inspired by that event.

http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2009 ... poems.html

[victory]

Emmanuel Moses


MR. NOBODY JOINS THE BROKEN HEARTS CLUB

One of them has kept his love intact
with its shimmerings and chasms
another gets rid of it the way he'd throw away a withered plant
sweeping away even the last crumbs of earth
scattered on the balcony
while the third one separates the object from its attributes
and keeps watching the chimney-pots
at dusk,
keeps drinking, at his kitchen table,
the black gritty wine of an unknown south
--and how should I behave,
Mister Nobody asks himself
having stopped at a cafe
where he had--he remembers now--
once desired and then broken things off
between two journeys
although crossings would probably be a more appropriate word under the circumstances
which example to follow
but he ought perhaps to choose them in turn
mix everything up or even innovate why not
or (on the other hand) take advantage of the occasion
to lay out his thoughts
try to decipher time's secret meaning
explore psychic space in all its dimensions
to recount (and understand)
genealogies and sequences
then he pockets his notebook again
notices that the waiters have piled up the chairs
that he is the last client of the night
that they are waiting impatiently for his departure
leaving just one ceiling lamp lit above his head
which shines on his glass his pen his hands with their bitten nails.

*****

THE GOLDEN AGE

Everything is rare in this delicate kingdom
fruit and sealing-wax
silk as well as steel.
A bouquet of flowers
costs more than what would fill a purse
the dead, like the living, must do without.
On sunny days
--which are numbered also--
ladies go out, their parasols in hand
they stroll beside the canals
till the hour when the reddening sun scissors their silhouettes
then erases them like a repentant painter.
Behind the latticed windows, people play music
while drinking wine.
Spinet or lute accompanies the passer-by
who feels an inexplicable pang.
Memories of lace are rustling everywhere
and the swan's dawn cry
freezes forever.

translated by Marilyn Hacker

[victory]

"Inside my empty bottle I was constructing a lighthouse while all the others were making ships." - Charles Simic

[victory]

Agha Shahid Ali

Beyond the Ash Rains


'What have you known of loss
That makes you different from other men?'
- Gilgamesh

When the desert refused my history,
Refused to acknowledge that I had lived
there, with you, among a vanished tribe,

two, three thousand years ago, you parted
the dawn rain, its thickest monsoon curtains,

and beckoned me to the northern canyons.
There, among the red rocks, you lived alone.
I had still not learned the style of nomads:

to walk between the rain drops to keep dry.
Wet and cold, I spoke like a poor man,

without irony. You showed me the relics
of our former life, proof that we'd at last
found each other, but in your arms I felt

singled out for loss. When you lit the fire
and poured the wine, "I am going," I murmured,
repeatedly, "going where no one has been
and no one will be... Will you come with me?"
You took my hand, and we walked through the streets

of an emptied world, vulnerable
to our suddenly bare history in which I was,

but you said won't again be, singled
out for loss in your arms, won't ever again
be exiled, never again, from your arms.

[victory]

Agha Shahid Ali

Vacating an Apartment

1
Efficient as Fate,
each eye a storm trooper,

the cleaners wipe my smile
with Comet fingers
and tear the plaster
off my suicide note.

They learn everything
from the walls’ eloquent tongues.

Now, quick as genocide,
they powder my ghost for a cinnamon jar.

They burn my posters
(India and Heaven in flames),

whitewash my voicestains,

make everything new,
clean as Death.

2
When the landlord brings new tenants,
even Memory is a stranger.

The woman, her womb solid with the future,
instructs her husband’s eyes
to clutch insurance policies.

They ignore my love affair with the furniture,
the corner table that memorized
my crossed-out lines.

Oh, she’s beautiful,
a hard-nippled Madonna.

The landlord gives them my autopsy;
they sign the lease.

The room is beating with bottled infants,
and I’ve stopped beating.

I’m moving out holding tombstones in my hands.