How To Get A Job Like Mine

Съвети на Кърт Вонегът към млади писатели. Разкошен...

"Don't use semicolons. They stand for absolutely nothing. They are transvestite hermaphrodites. They are just a way of showing off. To show that you have been to college."

"Great literature "Moby-Dick", "Huckleberry Finn", "A farewell to arms"... They're all about how stinky it is to be a human being."

"If you really want to hurt your parents, and you don't have the courage to be a homosexual, the least you can do is go into the arts."

"Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow."

Miss Me–But Let Me Go!

When I come to the end of the road
And the sun has set for me
I want no rites in a gloom-filled room.
Why cry for a soul set free?

Miss me a little–but not too long
And not with your head bowed low.
Remember the love that we once shared,
Miss me–but let me go.

For this is a journey that we all must take
And each must go alone.
It's all a part of the Master's plan,
A step on the road to home.

When you are lonely and sick of heart
Go to the friends we know
And bury your sorrows in doing good deeds.
Miss Me–But Let me Go!

Edgar A. Guest

A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved.

K. Vonnegut

Arms around your love

With his arms around your love
Oh no, here comes the pain that you can't ignore

With his arms around your girl
He'll do all of the things you didn't do before
You had every chance, but you closed the door

Now you're just gonna have to take it
(Cause if you didn't know)
She's gonna make you pay for it
(At a price you can't afford)
You're just gonna have to take it

With his arms around your love (x3)

Oh, yeah

Pretend that you don't mind
But you know everything that you left behind

And it would have been alright
If you'd gave half of the praise that you held inside
You thought she'd hang around for the ride

Now you're just gonna have to take it
(Cause if you didn't know)
She's gonna make you pay for it
(At a price you can't afford)
You're just gonna have to take it

With his arms around your love (x3)

Coming clean feels so dangerous
Just a little bit would have been enough
But you never said all the words caught in your head

As if your heart was dead
Well now its surely bled and broken up

And it would have been alright
If you'd gave half of the praise that you held inside
You thought she'd hang around for the ride

Now you're just gonna have to take it
(Cause if you didn't know)
She's gonna make you pay for it
(At a price you can't afford)
You're just gonna have to take it

With his arms around your love

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.

Beckett 

Of silence

За тишината - дали наистина е геният на глупците и достойнство за мъдрите? Няколко любими цитата и прекрасен стих на О. Уайлд:

It is better wither to be silent, or to say things of more value than silence. Sooner throw a pearl at hazard than an idle or useless word; and do not say a little in many words, but a great deal in a few.
Pythagoras

Silence is the genius of fools and one of the virtues of the wise.
Pope Boniface VIII

It is better to be silent and be thought a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt.
Abraham Lincoln

I have often regretted my speech, never my silence.
Publilius Syrus

Silence is golden when you can't think of a good answer.
Muhammad Ali

Three things are ever silent--Thought, Destiny, and the Grave.
Edward George Earle Lytton Bulwer

All Heaven and Earth are still, though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most.
Lord Byron

Silence is the most perfect expression of scorn.
George Bernard Shaw

With silence favor me.
Horace

He that would live in peace and at ease, must not speak all he knows, nor judge all he sees.
Benjamin Franklin

Silence is more musical than any song.
Christina Rossetti

In the attitude of silence the soul finds the path in a clearer light, and what is elusive and deceptive resolves itself into crystal clearness. Our life is a long and arduous quest after Truth.
Mahatma Gandhi

The rest is silence.
William Shakespeare

In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.
Martin Luther King Jr.

Silentium Amoris (The Silence of Love)

As often-times the too resplendent sun
Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon
Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won
A single ballad from the nightingale,
So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail,
And all my sweetest singing out of tune.

And as at dawn across the level mead
On wings impetuous some wind will come,
And with its too harsh kisses break the reed
Which was its only instrument of song,
So my too stormy passions work me wrong,
And for excess of Love my Love is dumb.

But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show
Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung;
Else it were better we should part, and go,
Thou to some lips of sweeter melody,
And I to nurse the barren memory
Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.
Oscar Wilde

Наскоро си говорих с приятел за това, че понякога изпитвам затруднения да описвам какво изпитвам и да обрисувам чувствата си с думи и се сетих за този велик цитат на Ст. Кинг от "Особени сезони":

The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.


в превод:

Най-важните неща се определят най-трудно. Това са неща, от които се срамуваш, защото думите ги принизяват; думите смаляват онова, което в главата ти е безгранично, и когато ги произнесеш, те представят нещата с обикновени житейски размери… Най-важните неща се крият близо до сърцето ти… Можеш да направиш открития, които карат хората да те гледат странно, без да разбират какво точно си казал или пък си казват толкова ли е важно това, което мислиш, че ти иде да плачеш, когато говориш за него. Това е най-лошото… когато тайната остава заключена не по желание на разказвача, а по желание на човека, който би трябвало да те разбере…

Big Night On The Town

drunk on the dark streets of some city,
it's night, you're lost, where's your
room?
you enter a bar to find yourself,
order scotch and water.
damned bar's sloppy wet, it soaks
part of one of your shirt
sleeves.
It's a clip joint-the scotch is weak.
you order a bottle of beer.
Madame Death walks up to you
wearing a dress.
she sits down, you buy her a
beer, she stinks of swamps, presses
a leg against you.
the bar tender sneers.
you've got him worried, he doesn't
know if you're a cop, a killer, a
madman or an
Idiot.
you ask for a vodka.
you pour the vodka into the top of
the beer bottle.
It's one a.m. In a dead cow world.
you ask her how much for head,
drink everything down, it tastes
like machine oil.

you leave Madame Death there,
you leave the sneering bartender
there.

you have remembered where
your room is.
the room with the full bottle of
wine on the dresser.
the room with the dance of the
roaches.
Perfection in the Star Turd
where love died
laughing.

Charles Bukowski (source http://www.poemhunter.com)

English is tough

Две смешни поеми. Първата е от неизвестен автор, а втората от Gerard Nolst Trenité (холандски писател и учител):

We’ll begin with a box, and the plural is boxes,
But the plural of ox should be oxen, not oxes.
Then one fowl is a goose, but two are called geese,
Yet the plural of moose should never be meese,
You may find a lone mouse or a whole nest of mice,
But the plural of house is houses, not hice.

If the plural of man is always called men,
Why shouldn’t the plural of pan be called pen?
The cow in the plural may be cows or kine,
But a bow if repeated is never called bine,
And the plural of vow is vows, never vine.

If I speak of a foot and you show me your feet,
And I give you a boot would a pair be called beet?
If one is a tooth, and a whole set are teeth,
Why shouldn’t the plural of booth be called beeth?

If the singular’s this and the plural is these,
Should the plural of kiss ever be nicknamed keese?
Then one may be that and three would be those,
Yet hat in the plural would never be hose,
And the plural of cat is cats, not cose.

We speak of a brother, and also of brethren,
But though we say mother, we never say methren,
Then the masculine pronouns are he, his and him,
But imagine the feminine she, shis and shim,

So English, I fancy you will all agree,
Is the funniest language you ever did seе

The Chaos
/Poem of English Pronunciation/
by Gerard Nolst Trenité


Dearest creature in creation,
Study English pronunciation.
I will teach you in my verse
Sounds like corpse, corps, horse, and worse.
I will keep you, Suzy, busy,
Make your head with heat grow dizzy.
Tear in eye, your dress will tear.
So shall I! Oh hear my prayer.

Just compare heart, beard, and heard,
Dies and diet, lord and word,
Sword and sward, retain and Britain.
(Mind the latter, how it's written.)
Now I surely will not plague you
With such words as plaque and ague.
But be careful how you speak:
Say break and steak, but bleak and streak;
Cloven, oven, how and low,
Script, receipt, show, poem, and toe.

Hear me say, devoid of trickery,
Daughter, laughter, and Terpsichore,
Typhoid, measles, topsails, aisles,
Exiles, similes, and reviles;
Scholar, vicar, and cigar,
Solar, mica, war and far;
One, anemone, Balmoral,
Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel;
Gertrude, German, wind and mind,
Scene, Melpomene, mankind.

Billet does not rhyme with ballet,
Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.
Blood and flood are not like food,
Nor is mould like should and would.
Viscous, viscount, load and broad,
Toward, to forward, to reward.
And your pronunciation's OK
When you correctly say croquet,
Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,
Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Ivy, privy, famous; clamour
And enamour rhymes with hammer.
River, rival, tomb, bomb, comb,
Doll and roll and some and home.
Stranger does not rhyme with anger,
Neither does devour with clangour.
Souls but foul, haunt but aunt,
Font, front, wont, want, grand, and grant,
Shoes, goes, does. Now first say finger,
And then singer, ginger, linger,
Real, zeal, mauve, gauze, gouge and gauge,
Marriage, foliage, mirage, and age.


Query does not rhyme with very,
Nor does fury sound like bury.
Dost, lost, post and doth, cloth, loth.
Job, nob, bosom, transom, oath.
Though the differences seem little,
We say actual but victual.
Refer does not rhyme with deafer.
Foeffer does, and zephyr, heifer.
Mint, pint, senate and sedate;
Dull, bull, and George ate late.
Scenic, Arabic, Pacific,
Science, conscience, scientific.

Liberty, library, heave and heaven,
Rachel, ache, moustache, eleven.
We say hallowed, but allowed,
People, leopard, towed, but vowed.
Mark the differences, moreover,
Between mover, cover, clover;
Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,
Chalice, but police and lice;
Camel, constable, unstable,
Principle, disciple, label.

Petal, panel, and canal,
Wait, surprise, plait, promise, pal.
Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,
Senator, spectator, mayor.
Tour, but our and succour, four.
Gas, alas, and Arkansas.
Sea, idea, Korea, area,
Psalm, Maria, but malaria.
Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean.
Doctrine, turpentine, marine.

Compare alien with Italian,
Dandelion and battalion.
Sally with ally, yea, ye,
Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, and key.
Say aver, but ever, fever,
Neither, leisure, skein, deceiver.
Heron, granary, canary.
Crevice and device and aerie.

Face, but preface, not efface.
Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass.
Large, but target, gin, give, verging,
Ought, out, joust and scour, scourging.
Ear, but earn and wear and tear
Do not rhyme with here but ere.
Seven is right, but so is even,
Hyphen, roughen, nephew Stephen,
Monkey, donkey, Turk and jerk,
Ask, grasp, wasp, and cork and work.

Pronunciation -- think of Psyche!
Is a paling stout and spikey?
Won't it make you lose your wits,
Writing groats and saying grits?
It's a dark abyss or tunnel:
Strewn with stones, stowed, solace, gunwale,
Islington and Isle of Wight,
Housewife, verdict and indict.

Finally, which rhymes with enough?
Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough?
Hiccough has the sound of cup.
My advice is give it up!

The Pig by Roald Dahl

In England once there lived a big
And wonderfully clever pig.
To everybody it was plain
That Piggy had a massive brain.
He worked out sums inside his head,
There was no book he hadn't read.
He knew what made an airplane fly,
He knew how engines worked and why.
He knew all this, but in the end
One question drove him round the bend:
He simply couldn't puzzle out
What LIFE was really all about.
What was the reason for his birth?
Why was he placed upon this earth?
His giant brain went round and round.
Alas, no answer could be found.
Till suddenly one wondrous night.
All in a flash he saw the light.
He jumped up like a ballet dancer
And yelled, "By gum, I've got the answer!
They want my bacon slice by slice
To sell at a tremendous price!
They want my tender juicy chops
To put in all the butcher's shops!
They want my pork to make a roast
And that's the part'll cost the most!
They want my sausages in strings!
They even want my chitterlings!
The butcher's shop! The carving knife!
That is the reason for my life!"
Such thoughts as these are not designed
To give a pig great piece of mind.
Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland,
A pail of pigswill in his hand,
And piggy with a mighty roar,
Bashes the farmer to the floor…
Now comes the rather grizzly bit
So let's not make too much of it,
Except that you must understand
That Piggy did eat Farmer Bland,
He ate him up from head to toe,
Chewing the pieces nice and slow.
It took an hour to reach the feet,
Because there was so much to eat,
And when he finished, Pig, of course,
Felt absolutely no remorse.
Slowly he scratched his brainy head
And with a little smile he said,
"I had a fairly powerful hunch
That he might have me for his lunch.
And so, because I feared the worst,
I thought I'd better eat him first."

Към себе си

Когато си на дъното на пъкъла,
когато си най-тъжен, най-злочест,
от парещите въглени на мъката
си направи сам стълба и излез

Когато от безпътица премазан си
и си зазидан в четири стени,
от всички свои пътища прерязани
нов път си направи и пак тръгни.

Светът когато мръкне пред очите ти
и притъмнява в тези две очи
сам слънце си създай и от лъчите му
с последния до него се качи.

Трънлив и сляп е на живота ребусът,
на кръст разпъва нашите души.
Загубил всичко, не загубвай себе си -
единствено така ще го решиш!

Дамян Дамянов

Едно такова никакво ми е, сигурно щото у дома сме болни двама и точно като зазидана между 4 стени се чувствам...

I Love My Job (The lost Dr. Seuss Poem)

I love my job, I love the pay.

I love it more and more each day.
I love my boss; he is the best.
I love his boss and all the rest.

I love my office and its location.
I hate to have to go on vacation.
I love my furniture, drab and gray,
And the paper that piles up every day.

I love my chair in my padded cell.
There's nothing else I love so well.
I love to work among my peers.
I love their leers and jeers and sneers.

I love my computer and its software;
I hug it often though it don't care.
I love each program and every file,
I try to understand once in a while.

I'm happy to be here, I am, I am;
I'm the happiest slave of my Uncle Sam.
I love this work; I love these chores.
I love the meetings with deadly bores.

I love my job-I'll say it again.
I even love these friendly men,
These men who've come to visit today
In lovely white coats to take me away.

When You Are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

William Butler Yeats

For Jane: With All The Love I Had, Which Was Not Enough

I pick up the skirt,
I pick up the sparkling beads
in black,
this thing that moved once
around flesh,
and I call God a liar,
I say anything that moved
like that
or knew
my name
could never die
in the common verity of dying,
and I pick
up her lovely
dress,
all her loveliness gone,
and I speak to all the gods,
Jewish gods, Christ-gods,
chips of blinking things,
idols, pills, bread,
fathoms, risks,
knowledgeable surrender,
rats in the gravy of 2 gone quite mad
without a chance,
hummingbird knowledge, hummingbird chance,
I lean upon this,
I lean on all of this
and I know:
her dress upon my arm:
but
they will not
give her back to me.

Charles Bukowski

Bluebird

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

Charles Bukowski

Кога и къде на 23 май (събота)

Източник

Ела и се включи!

Вземи удобни дрехи и приятели

Почистване, а също освежаване и ремонтиране на туристическата инфраструктура се организира във всичките 11 природни парка.

Ето къде трябва да бъдете, за да помогнете за природните паркове на 23 май 2009 г., събота:

Природен парк Беласица
На стадиона в гр. Петрич от 9 ч.

Природен парк Българка
Осигурен транспорт пред Областна управа, Габрово от 10 ч. или направо от 10,30 ч. на южния паркинг на комплекс "Етъра".

Природен парк Витоша
Местността Дендрариума от 10 ч. Мястото е край шосето от Бояна за Златните мостове. Има разклон за Копитото наляво, а Дендрариума е на това място, но надясно. Стига се с кола, с маршрутка 10 от Руски паметник или пеша от Княжево за около час.

Природен парк Врачански Балкан
Природозащитен център "Натура" - Червения площад на Враца от 9,30 ч.

Природен парк Златни пясъци
Два сборни пункта - Аладжа манастир и ресторант "Горски кът" от 10 ч.

Природен парк Персина
Посетителски център на парка в Белене от 10 ч.

Природен парк Рилски манастир
Осигурен транспорт от автогарата в гр. Рила от 8,30 ч. или направо на Кирилова поляна след Рилския манастир от 9,30 ч.

Природен парк Русенски Лом
Осигурен транспорт пред Градска библиотека в Русе от 9.00 ч. или от 10.30 ч. пред археологическите резервати Ивановски скални църкви и Средновековен град Червен.

Природен парк Сините камъни
Информационно-посетителски център на парка в Сливен, в началото на Хайдушката пътека от 9.00 ч. или от 10 ч. на Карандила пред хотела.

Природен парк Странджа
За групата от Бургас e осигурен транспорт от ул. Булаир в 8,30 ч., от 9,30 ч. в м. Бялага вода край с. Босна по пътя за Малко Търново или направо в село Младежко от 10 ч.

Природен парк Шуменско плато
Информационен център на парка от 10 ч.

Всеки има свой посланик - популярна личност, която също ще включи в почистването:

Посланикът на Великобритания Стийв Уилиамс, тенис звездата Маги Малеева, телевизионният и радиоводещ Ники Кънчев и журналистът от bTV Венелин Петков ще помагат в Природен парк Витоша.

Актьорът Филип Аврамов, познат от „Царете на комедията”, отново ще бъде посланик на Природен парк Българка край Габрово.

Певицата Ваня Щерева за втори път ще участва в почистването на Природен парк Русенски Лом.

Журналистът от RE:TV Иван Бедров отново ще бъде посланик на Природен парк Персина край Белене.

Синоптикът на bTV Станислава Трайкова ще бъде доброволец в Природен парк Рилски манастир.

Ръководителят на консулски отдел на посолство на Германия Волфганг Вендел ще е посланикът на Природен парк Врачански Балкан.

Вики от група «Мастило» ще помага в Природен парк Шуменско плато.

Фотографът Александър Иванов, познат с фотографиите си на България отвисоко, ще бъде посланик на Природен парк Сините камъни край Сливен.

Синоптикът на bTV Христина Балийска ще помага в Природен парк Беласица.

Актьорът Асен Лозанов от бургаския театър ще бъде посланик на Природен парк Странджа.

Подкрепям инициативата и ще отида със сина си там, въпреки че не разбирам що за идиот трябва да си, за да си хвърляш боклука където ти падне! Няколко идеи за "кашкавал - туристите", към които спадам и аз :).

1. Не изхвърляйте найлоновите пликчета на поразия, носете си едно, когато ходите на планина и събирайте боклука си в него, за да го изхвърлите там, където трябва. Със същия успех за събиране на боклук можете да ползвате пликовете, в които си носите храната.

2. Ако сте пушач и нямате плик, можете да събирате фасовете си и в целофана на кутията от цигари. Внимателно гасете цигарите си - все пак сте в планина и можете да предизвикате пожар.

3. Друг удобен и безопасен начин, за събиране на фасовете е да носите бутилка с малко вода, в която да ги хвърляте. Така хем няма да предизвикате пожар, хем няма да усещате неприятната миризма на фас.

4. Използвайте колкото се може по-рядко прибори за еднократна употреба (пластмасови). Нищо не ви коства да си вземете прибори от вкъщи.

5. Внимавайте с мокрите кърпички - болшинството от тях не се рециклират (не се разлагат) и ги използвайте по възможност по-рядко.

Ще дописвам...

Oт Луци, прекрасен поет, без да го знае

Сън

Когато нощем лягам си самотна,
жадувам твоите ръце
Да излекуват болката страхотна,
да изцелят разбитото сърце

Очи затварям тихо в тъмнината
и виждам твоят образ пак
В лицето ти намирам светлината,
разбиваш падналият мрак

Гробовно тих, застинал час...
В съня ми мъркаш страстно,
че мой си ти и твоя аз
и ме обгръщаш властно

Изгарям, жадна съм, треперя!
Целувки търсят моите устни...
Протягам мисъл за да ги намеря...
събуждам се и пак е пусто.

Мъгла

Мъгла обвива ме злокобно,
прониква в моята душа,
студени тръпки ме полазват,
помръква всяка светлинка.

В мъглата тръгвам напосоки -
пристъпвам плахо във нощта.
Вървя сама, безкрайно дълго,
изгубена във тишина.

Домът ти тих е, бездиханен.
Прозорецът е заледен.
Безгрижно спиш - така спокоен,
горещ и тъй далеч от мен.

Докосвам със студени пръсти
вратата ти, която ни дели.
Ще ме поканиш ли на гости?
Самотна съм и толкова боли.

Потрепва вътре нещо в тебе,
забързва твоето сърце.
И сънищата се променят
като кошмари на дете.

И в тях съм горда и красива -
владея твоята душа.
Възбуждам те и ужасявам.
Отпивам жадно от страха.

И пак, отново ти сънуваш.
И виждаш сивата мъгла.
И мракът бавно те поглъща.
Вървим със теб ръка в ръка.

Дали

Дали зведите са самотни,
една от друга тъй далече?
Дали все още те обичам,
или претръпнала съм вече?

Дали небето сиво плаче,
когато тихичко вали?
Дали все още тъй те искам,
дори бекрай да ме боли?

Дали сърдит е океанът,
разпенен, блъскащ във брега?
Дали сълзите ми горещи,
ще могат да стопят леда?

Дали снежинките умират,
щом по теб се полепят?
Дали пък чувствата са вечни
или бавно ще заспят?

Дали дърветата треперят,
голи зимата в студа?
Дали ще си останем двама,
както когато каза "да"?

Въпроси

Как искам да те опозная -
какъв си бил като дете,
какво сънуваш в тихи нощи,
какво докосва твоето сърце?

В джобовете какво ли имаш,
дали страхуваш се от нещо
защо си толкова намръщен
обичаш ли кафето си горещо

В каква ли поза ти заспиваш,
плакал ли си някога от яд?
Как скъса с първото ти гадже?
Какво обичаш за обяд?

Какво желаеш от живота,
защо се криеш ти от мен?
Дали душата ти докосвам,
с какво започва твоят ден?

Как искам да те питам всичко,
да си говорим ден след ден.
И през нощта и още много,
да грабна мислите ти в плен.

Как искам да те опозная,
за да съм с теб, поне така.
Но ти мълчиш - така студено
далечна, ледена мечта.

The Crunch

too much too little

too fat
too thin
or nobody.

laughter or
tears

haters
lovers

strangers with faces like
the backs of
thumb tacks

armies running through
streets of blood
waving winebottles
bayoneting and fucking
virgins.

an old guy in a cheap room
with a photograph of M. Monroe.

there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock

people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love.

people just are not good to each other
one on one.

the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.

we are afraid.

our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winners

it hasn't told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.

or the terror of one person
aching in one place
alone

untouched
unspoken to

watering a plant.

people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.

I suppose they never will be.
I don't ask them to be.

but sometimes I think about
it.

the beads will swing
the clouds will cloud
and the killer will behead the child
like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone.

too much
too little

too fat
too thin
or nobody

more haters than lovers.

people are not good to each other.
perhaps if they were
our deaths would not be so sad.

meanwhile I look at young girls
stems
flowers of chance.

there must be a way.

surely there must be a way that we have not yet
though of.

who put this brain inside of me?

it cries
it demands
it says that there is a chance.

it will not say
"no."

Charles Bukowski

Приспивна Песничка

Там в тилилейската, там във злодейската
гъсто гъстейска гора
страннно чудовище има леговище
скрито в една пещера.

Стъпва със лапища... Спъва се в трапища.
В трънища и във бодли.
Скъса си вече всички чорапища.
Левият крак го боли.

То е страхотнище! Но е самотнище...
Тъй си живее без шум.
Хем е чудовище, хем е тъжовище,
дето си плаче на ум.

Туй Торбаланище спи под юрганище -
сто килограма листа.
Носи си гащерки. Храни се с мащерки...
С никакви други неща.

Нито е лошаво, нито е рошаво
Даже е с хлътнал корем.
Даже очищата, даже ушищата
са му човешки съвсем.

Само че, само че... Някакво камъче
счупи му предния зъб -
както си хрускаше, както закускаше -
и си умира от скръб.

То е суетище... И е поетище.
Дращи скалата със нож.
Киха и пише си стихчета- кихчета -
хремаво в дългата нощ.

Свърши си всичките хапчета- лапчета
Мъчи го грипът свиреп.
В девет куплетчета - сто епитетчета:
всичките те са за теб.

Ах, туй чудовище пази съкровище...
Някой ще каже: дрън-дрън.
Скривай сълзичките, стискай очичките,
за да го видиш на сън.

Недялко Йорданов

Не мога да се сдържа...

Още поезия от Низар Кабани. С огромни благодарности към Яна:

Your body is my map

raise me more love… raise me
my prettiest fits of madness
O’ dagger’s journey… in my flesh
and knife’s plunge…
sink me further my lady…
the sea calls me
add to me more death …
perhaps as death slays me… I’m revived
your body is my map…
the world's map no longer concerns me…
I am the oldest capital of sadness…
and my wound a Pharaonic engraving
my pain…. extends like an oil patch
from Beirut… to China…
my pain… a caravan…dispatched
by the Caliphs of "A’Chaam"… to China…
in the seventh century of the "Birth"…
and lost in a dragon’s mouth…
bird of my heart… "naysani"
O’ sand of the sea, and forests of olives
O’ taste of snow, and taste of fire…
my heathen flavor, and insight
I feel scared of the unknown… shelter me
I feel scared of the darkness… embrace me
I feel cold… cover me up
tell me children stories…
rest beside me…
Chant to me…
since from the start of creation
I’ve been searching for a homeland to my forehead…
for a woman’s hair…
that writes me on the walls… then erases me…
for a woman’s love… to take me
to the borders of the sun… and throws me…
from a woman’s lip… as she makes me
like dust of powdered gold…
shine of my life. my fan
my lantern. declaration of my orchards
stretch me a bridge with the scent of oranges…
and place me like an ivory comb…
in the darkness of your hair… then forget me
I am a drop of water… ambivalent
remaining in the notebook of October
your love crushes me…
like a mad horse from the Caucasus throwing me under its hoofs…
and gargles with the water of my eyes…
add to me more fury… add to me
O’ prettiest fits of my madness
for your sake I set free my women
and effaced my birth certificate
and cut all my arteries…

The Epic of Sadness

Your love taught me to grieve
and I have been in need, for centuries
a woman to make me grieve
for a woman, to cry upon her arms
like a sparrow
for a woman to gather my pieces
like shards of broken crystal

Your love has taught me, my lady, the worst habits
it has taught me to read my coffee cups
thousands of times a night
to experiment with alchemy,
to visit fortune tellers

It has taught me to leave my house
to comb the sidewalks
and search your face in raindrops
and in car lights
and to peruse your clothes
in the clothes of unknowns
and to search for your image
even…..even…..
even in the posters of advertisements
your love has taught me
to wander around, for hours
searching for a gypsies hair
that all gypsies women will envy
searching for a face, for a voice
which is all the faces and all the voices…

Your love entered me…my lady
into the cities of sadness
and I before you, never entered
the cities of sadness
I did not know…
that tears are the person
that a person without sadness
is only a shadow of a person…

Your love taught me
to behave like a boy
to draw your face with chalk
upon the wall
upon the sails of fishermen's boats
on the Church bells, on the crucifixes,
your love taught me, how love,
changes the map of time…
Your love taught me, that when I love
the earth stops revolving,
Your love taught me things
that were never accounted for
So I read children's fairytales
I entered the castles of Jennies
and I dreamt that she would marry me
the Sultan's daughter
those eyes..
clearer than the water of a lagoon
those lips…
more desirable than the flower of pomegranates
and I dreamt that I would kidnap her like a knight
and I dreamt that I would give
her necklaces of pearl and coral
Your love taught me, my lady,
what is insanity
it taught me…how life may pass
without the Sultan's daughter arriving

Your love taught me
How to love you in all things
in a bare winter tree,
in dry yellow leaves
in the rain, in a tempest,
in the smallest cafe, we drank in,
in the evenings…our black coffee

Your love taught me…to seek refuge
to seek refuge in hotels without names
in churches without names…
in cafes without names…

Your love taught me…how the night
swells the sadness of strangers
It taught me…how to see Beirut
as a woman…a tyrant of temptation
as a woman, wearing every evening
the most beautiful clothing she possesses
and sprinkling upon her breasts perfume
for the fisherman, and the princes
Your love taught me how to cry without crying
It taught me how sadness sleeps
Like a boy with his feet cut off
in the streets of the Rouche and the Hamra

Your love taught me to grieve
and I have been needing, for centuries
a woman to make me grieve
for a woman, to cry upon her arms
like a sparrow
for a woman to gather my pieces
like shards of broken crystal


Words

He lets me listen, when he moves me,
Words are not like other words
He takes me, from under my arms
He plants me, in a distant cloud
And the black rain in my eyes
Falls in torrents, torrents
He carries me with him, he carries me
To an evening of perfumed balconies


And I am like a child in his hands
Like a feather carried by the wind
He carries for me seven moons in his hands
and a bundle of songs
He gives me sun, he gives me summer
and flocks of swallows
He tells me that I am his treasure
And that I am equal to thousands of stars
And that I am treasure, and that I am
more beautiful than he has seen of paintings
He tells me things that make me dizzy
that make me forget the dance and the steps


Words…which overturn my history
which make me a woman…in seconds
He builds castles of fantasies
which I live in…for seconds…
And I return…I return to my table
Nothing with me…
Nothing with me…except words