izmiče klasifikacijama.
definitivno ne pripada. nikome osim sebi.
i o tome piše. o nepripadanju.
... poezija je odbrana individualnosti. To je način da se čovek brani od svega, od svog plemena, porodice, religije... Pesnici su uvek bili po strani, a poezija je jedino mesto gde čovek može da kaže: "Slušajte, sve je to lepo, svi ti vaši istorijski planovi itd., ali ja imam svoj život. Tu sam sâm, i pokušavam da razumem ove zvezde, ovu ženu koju volim, moj grad, bašticu oko koje ima posla...
nisam baš, baš ljubitelj američke poezije...
malo vitmana, silvije plat...poneka snažna,
brutalna karverova slika, malo nežne tes galager...
alli, čarls simić, zaista ima nešto
neodoljivo privlačno u svojoj poeziji.
nagoveštaje evropske tradicije u načinu na koji
posmatra svet, pomalo latinoamericke mistike,
i dubokih simbola, a u američkom jednostavnom pakovanju.
“Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them.”
njegova štedljivost i preciznost, otimanje
stihova od tišine, oslikavanje stvarnosti
najneobičnijim kontrastima
ga zaista čine jedinstvenim.
iskrene čestitke pesniku.
i hvala na istrajnosti. dvadeset zbirki poezije, desetak knjiga prevoda i antologija,
nekoliko zbirki eseja i sećanja. ogroman, vredan opus.
Charles Simic: Breasts
I love breasts, hard
Full breasts, guarded
By a button.
They come in the night.
The bestiaries of the ancients
Which include the unicorn
Have kept them out.
Pearly, like the east
An hour before sunrise,
Two ovens of the only
Philosopher's stone
Worth bothering about.
They bring on their nipples
Beads of inaudible sighs,
Vowels of delicious clarity
For the little red schoolhouse of our mouths.
Elsewhere, solitude
Makes another gloomy entry
In its ledger, misery
Borrows another cup of rice.
They draw nearer: Animal
Presence. In the barn
The milk shivers in the pail.
I like to come up to them
From underneath, like a kid
Who climbs on a chair
To reach the forbidden jam.
Gently, with my lips,
Loosen the button.
Have them slip into my hands
Like two freshly poured beer-mugs.
I spit on fools who fail to include
Breasts in their metaphysics
Star-gazers who have not enumerated them
Among the moons of the earth ...
They give each finger
Its true shape, its joy:
Virgin soap, foam
On which our hands are cleansed.
And how the tongue honors
These two sour buns,
For the tongue is a feather
Dipped in egg-yolk.
I insist that a girl
Stripped to the waist
Is the first and last miracle,
That the old janitor on his deathbed
Who demands to see the breasts of his wife
For the one last time
Is the greatest poet who ever lived.
O my sweet, my wistful bagpipes.
Look, everyone is asleep on the earth.
Now, in the absolute immobility
Of time, drawing the waist
Of the one I love to mine,
I will tip each breast
Like a dark heavy grape
Into the hive
Of my drowsy mouth.
i jedna mala, sjajna:
Watermelons | ||
| ||
Green Buddhas On the fruit stand. We eat the smile And spit out the teeth. |