Mesa Selimovic - Suma
https://vdocuments.mx/mesa-selimovic-djevojka-crvene-kose.html
Saturday, January 22, 2022
Friday, January 7, 2022
Tuesday, October 12, 2021
The Imaginary Man
The imaginary man
lives in an imaginary mansion
surrounded by imaginary trees
on the banks of an imaginary river
On the imaginary walls
imaginary old paintings hang
imaginary irreparable cracks
that represent imaginary events
occuring in imaginary worlds
in imaginary times and places
Every afternoon an imaginary afternoon
he climbs the imaginary stairs
and leans out the imaginary balcony
to gaze at the imaginary view
which consists of an imaginary valley
encircled by imaginary hills
Imaginary shadows
advance down the imaginary road
singing imaginary songs
for the death of the imaginary sun
And on imaginary moonlit nights
he dreams of the imaginary woman
who gave him his imaginary love
once again feeling that same pain
that same imaginary pleasure
and that imaginary man’s heart
once again throbs
Nicanor Parra
Tuesday, October 5, 2021
Rain (Rapa Nui) by Pablo Neruda
No, better the Queen not recognize
your face, it's sweeter
this way, my love, far from the effigies, the weight
of your hair in my hands. Do you remember
the Mangareva tree whose flowers fell
in your hair? These fingers are not like
the white petals: look at them they are like roots,
they are like stone shoots over which the lizard
slides. Don't be afraid, we will wait for the rain to fall, naked,
the rain, the same as falls over Manu Tara.
But just as water inures its strokes on the stone,
it falls on us, washing us softly
towards obscurity down below the hole
of Ranu Raraku. And so
don't let the fishermen or the wine-pitcher see you.
Bury your twin-burning breast on my mouth,
and let your head of hair be a small night for me,
a darkness of wet perfume enveloping me.
At night I dream that you and I are two plants
that grew together, roots entwined,
and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth,
since we are made of earth and rain. Sometimes
I think that with death we will seep below,
in the depths at the feet of he effigy, looking over
the ocean which brought us here to build and make love.
My hands were not ferrous when they met you, the waters
of another sea went through them as through a net; now
water and stones sustain seeds and secrets.
Sleeping and naked, love me: on the shore
you are like the island: your love confused, your love
astonished, hidden in the cavity of dreams,
is like the movement of the sea around us.
And when I too begin falling asleep
in your love, naked,
leave my hand between your breasts so it can throb
along with your nipples wet with rain.
your face, it's sweeter
this way, my love, far from the effigies, the weight
of your hair in my hands. Do you remember
the Mangareva tree whose flowers fell
in your hair? These fingers are not like
the white petals: look at them they are like roots,
they are like stone shoots over which the lizard
slides. Don't be afraid, we will wait for the rain to fall, naked,
the rain, the same as falls over Manu Tara.
But just as water inures its strokes on the stone,
it falls on us, washing us softly
towards obscurity down below the hole
of Ranu Raraku. And so
don't let the fishermen or the wine-pitcher see you.
Bury your twin-burning breast on my mouth,
and let your head of hair be a small night for me,
a darkness of wet perfume enveloping me.
At night I dream that you and I are two plants
that grew together, roots entwined,
and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth,
since we are made of earth and rain. Sometimes
I think that with death we will seep below,
in the depths at the feet of he effigy, looking over
the ocean which brought us here to build and make love.
My hands were not ferrous when they met you, the waters
of another sea went through them as through a net; now
water and stones sustain seeds and secrets.
Sleeping and naked, love me: on the shore
you are like the island: your love confused, your love
astonished, hidden in the cavity of dreams,
is like the movement of the sea around us.
And when I too begin falling asleep
in your love, naked,
leave my hand between your breasts so it can throb
along with your nipples wet with rain.
Monday, September 27, 2021
https://archive.org/details/put_po_mojoj_sobi-xavier_de_maistre
Pre mnogo godina volela sam ovu knjigu; moracu da ponovim i da vidim da li se nesto promenilo.
Tuesday, September 14, 2021
Invitation by Mary Oliver
Oh do you have time
to linger
for just a little while
out of your busy
and very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistles
for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,
or the most expressive of mirth,
or the most tender?
Their strong, blunt beaks
drink the air
as they strive
melodiously
not for your sake
and not for mine
and not for the sake of winning
but for sheer delight and gratitude –
believe us, they say,
it is a serious thing
just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in the broken world.
I beg of you,
do not walk by
without pausing
to attend to this
rather ridiculous performance.
It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
You must change your life
Saturday, September 4, 2021
Thursday, August 5, 2021
Thursday, July 29, 2021
What do you say, Percy? I am thinking
of sitting out on the sand to watch
the moon rise. It’s full tonight.
So we go
and the moon rises, so beautiful it
makes me shudder, makes me think about
time and space, makes me take
measure of myself: one iota
pondering heaven. Thus we sit, myself
thinking how grateful I am for the moon’s
perfect beauty and also, oh! how rich
it is to love the world. Percy, meanwhile,
leans against me and gazes up
into my face. As though I were just as wonderful
as the perfect moon.
“The Sweetness of Dogs” by Mary Oliver
Saturday, June 26, 2021
Happiness by Mary Oliver
In the afternoon I watched
the she-bear; she was looking
for the secret bin of sweetness -
honey, that the bees store
in the trees’ soft caves.
Black block of gloom, she climbed down
tree after tree and shuffled on
through the woods. And then
she found it! The honey-house deep
as heartwood, and dipped into it
among the swarming bees - honey and comb
she lipped and tongued and scooped out
in her black nails, until
maybe she grew full, or sleepy, or maybe
a little drunk, and sticky
down the rugs of her arms,
and began to hum and sway.
I saw her let go of the branches,
I saw her lift her honeyed muzzle
into the leaves, and her thick arms,
as though she would fly -
an enormous bee
all sweetness and wings -
down into the meadows, the perfections
of honeysuckle and roses and clover -
to float and sleep in the sheer nets
swaying from flower to flower
day after shining day.
the she-bear; she was looking
for the secret bin of sweetness -
honey, that the bees store
in the trees’ soft caves.
Black block of gloom, she climbed down
tree after tree and shuffled on
through the woods. And then
she found it! The honey-house deep
as heartwood, and dipped into it
among the swarming bees - honey and comb
she lipped and tongued and scooped out
in her black nails, until
maybe she grew full, or sleepy, or maybe
a little drunk, and sticky
down the rugs of her arms,
and began to hum and sway.
I saw her let go of the branches,
I saw her lift her honeyed muzzle
into the leaves, and her thick arms,
as though she would fly -
an enormous bee
all sweetness and wings -
down into the meadows, the perfections
of honeysuckle and roses and clover -
to float and sleep in the sheer nets
swaying from flower to flower
day after shining day.
Saturday, June 5, 2021
Wednesday, May 19, 2021
Saturday, June 16, 2018
Wednesday, March 28, 2018
Sunday, March 25, 2018
Friday, March 23, 2018
Sunday, March 11, 2018
Thursday, March 8, 2018
Wednesday, March 7, 2018
Monday, March 5, 2018
Monday, February 26, 2018
Saturday, February 24, 2018
Thursday, February 22, 2018
Wednesday, February 21, 2018
Saturday, February 17, 2018
Wednesday, February 14, 2018
Sunday, February 11, 2018
Monday, February 5, 2018
Saturday, February 3, 2018
Thursday, February 1, 2018
Monday, January 29, 2018
Friday, January 26, 2018
Wednesday, January 24, 2018
Tuesday, January 23, 2018
https://i.pinimg.com/originals/40/53/dd/4053dd9f489c85d24551b28e1c377ab5.jpg
Andre Kertesz, jedan od mojih najomiljenijih fotografa
Saturday, January 20, 2018
Joanna (2010)
https://pl.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joanna_(film_2010)
Joanna (2013)
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joanna_(2013_film)
Thursday, January 18, 2018
Sunday, January 14, 2018
Friday, January 12, 2018
Thursday, January 11, 2018
Tuesday, January 9, 2018
Monday, January 8, 2018
Monday, January 1, 2018
Saturday, December 30, 2017
Friday, December 29, 2017
Tuesday, December 26, 2017
Monday, December 25, 2017
Sunday, December 24, 2017
Thursday, December 21, 2017
Sunday, December 17, 2017
Wednesday, December 13, 2017
Sunday, December 10, 2017
Thursday, November 23, 2017
Tuesday, November 21, 2017
Thursday, November 16, 2017
Wednesday, November 15, 2017
Monday, November 13, 2017
Sunday, November 12, 2017
Saturday, November 11, 2017
Friday, November 10, 2017
Tuesday, November 7, 2017
Monday, November 6, 2017
Sunday, November 5, 2017
Wednesday, November 1, 2017
Tuesday, October 31, 2017
According to my calculations there are two or three new fictional characters baptized on earth every second. As a result, I am always unsure of myself when it comes time for me to enter that vast crowd of John the Baptists. But what can I do? I have to call my characters something, don't I? Well, this time, just to make it clear my heroine belongs to me and me alone (and means more to me than anyone ever has), I am giving her a name no woman has ever had before: Tamina. I picture her as tall and beautiful, thirty-three, and a native of Prague.
I can see her now, walking down a street in a provincial town in the west of Europe. Yes, you're right. Prague, which is far away, I call by its name, while the town my story takes place in I leave anonymous. It goes against all rules of perspective, but you'll just have to put up with it.
Tamina has a job as a waitress in a small café belonging to a married couple. The café brought in so little money the husband took a job somewhere else and they hired Tamina to take his place. The difference between the miserable salary he earned at his new job and the even more miserable salary they gave Tamina was their only profit...
All she has left of her husband is his passport picture. The other pictures remain behind in their appropriated apartment in Prague. Every day she looks at the grimy, dog-eared picture showing her husband full face (like a criminal in a mug shot). It is not a good likeness. Every day she spends some time in a sort of spiritual exercise, trying to remember what he looked like in profile, then half profile, then quarter profile, going over the lines of his nose and chin, and every day she is horrified at new fuzzy spots where her memory hesitates about which way to go.
During these exercises she tried to evoke his skin, its color, and all its minor blemishes: tiny warts, protuberances, freckles, veins. It was difficult, almost impossible. The colors her memory used were unrealistic. They could not do justice to human skin. As a result, she developed her own special technique of calling him to mind. Whenever she sat across from a man, she would use his head as a kind of sculptor's armature. She would concentrate all her attention on him and remodel his face inside her head, darkening the complexion, adding freckles and warts, scaling down the ears...
Why do I picture her with a golden ring in her mouth?
M. Kundera, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting
I can see her now, walking down a street in a provincial town in the west of Europe. Yes, you're right. Prague, which is far away, I call by its name, while the town my story takes place in I leave anonymous. It goes against all rules of perspective, but you'll just have to put up with it.
Tamina has a job as a waitress in a small café belonging to a married couple. The café brought in so little money the husband took a job somewhere else and they hired Tamina to take his place. The difference between the miserable salary he earned at his new job and the even more miserable salary they gave Tamina was their only profit...
All she has left of her husband is his passport picture. The other pictures remain behind in their appropriated apartment in Prague. Every day she looks at the grimy, dog-eared picture showing her husband full face (like a criminal in a mug shot). It is not a good likeness. Every day she spends some time in a sort of spiritual exercise, trying to remember what he looked like in profile, then half profile, then quarter profile, going over the lines of his nose and chin, and every day she is horrified at new fuzzy spots where her memory hesitates about which way to go.
During these exercises she tried to evoke his skin, its color, and all its minor blemishes: tiny warts, protuberances, freckles, veins. It was difficult, almost impossible. The colors her memory used were unrealistic. They could not do justice to human skin. As a result, she developed her own special technique of calling him to mind. Whenever she sat across from a man, she would use his head as a kind of sculptor's armature. She would concentrate all her attention on him and remodel his face inside her head, darkening the complexion, adding freckles and warts, scaling down the ears...
Why do I picture her with a golden ring in her mouth?
M. Kundera, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting
Sunday, October 29, 2017
Thursday, October 26, 2017
Wednesday, October 25, 2017
Od 2009, narednih sedam godina mnogo sam sanjala jednu osobu, dva sna drzim u secanju, prvi, kada smo se, bezeci od vlasti jednog totalitarnog sistema u dalekoj buducnosti, koji nam je branio da budemo zajedno, spustali tunelima u obliku tobogana, drzeci se za ruke i drugi, kada sam ga, stigavsi u njegov grad, cekala u njegovoj sobi i videla meni poznatu odecu koju nosi i mogla da je dodirnem I kada se pojavio na vratima, tiho sam rekla: "Ne plasi se, ja sam unutra." Oba su snova imala radnju dovoljno dugu za dve kratke price. Stalno sam imala nevolje s telefonom jer me bilo zao da uklonim stare poruke.
Tuesday, October 24, 2017
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