Najljepše pjesme na stranim jezicima

[Shuriken]

Andrew Marvell
TO HIS COY MISTRESS

Had we but world enough and time
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day,
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honor turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.



Ili, kako je jedna duhovita blogerica sumirala pjesmu:
Život je kratak. Smrt nam puše za vratom. Je*ala te čednost kad će te ionako grickat crvi! Ajmo se trošit!

[ptica dronta]

Molim za njemački orginal.

[cinna]

Anne de Noailles

Je ne voudrais qu'un changement
En ton être qui me fait peur;
Mes délices et mon tourment
Ne me viennent pas de ton cœur,

Ni de ton esprit qui m'est cher,
mais qu'il m'est aisé d'oublier...
Hélas ! mon désir est lié
À quelque beauté de ta chair !

Je retrouverais le repos
Si ton visage était terni;
Il n'est plus d'âme ou de propos
Qui m'enseigneraient l'infini;

Mais je constate ton regard
Comme un implacable accident.
Ce sont tes lèvres sur tes dents
Qui rendent mon destin hagard...

[annerri]

Herbst

Die Blätter fallen, fallen wie von weit,
als welkten in den Himmeln ferne Gärten;
sie fallen mit verneinender Gebärde.
Und in den Nächten fällt die schwere Erde
aus allen Sternen in die Einsamkeit.
Wir alle fallen. Diese Hand da fällt.
Und sieh dir andre an: es ist in allen.
Und doch ist Einer, welcher dieses Fallen
unendlich sanft in seinen Händen hält.

Rainer Maria Rilke
(1876 - 1926)


JESEN

Lišće pada, pada iz daljina,
kao da vrtovi nebesa venu;
svo lišće pada uz gestu niječnu.
I teška zemlja pada noću
iz svih zvijezda u samoću.
Svi mi padamo. I moja ruka pada.
Pogledaj druge: pad je u svima.
Pa ipak postoji Jedan na nebesima
koji blagom rukom svakim padom vlada.

Herbsttag

Herr, es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr groß.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,
und auf den Fluren lass die Winde los.

Befiehl den letzten Früchten, voll zu sein;
gib ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage,
dränge sie zur Vollendung hin, und jage
die letzte Süße in den schweren Wein.

Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter treiben.

R. M. Rilke

JESENJI DAN


Gospode, čas je. Ljeto bješe dugo.
Spusti sad sjenu na sunčane ure,
a vjetre pusti da poljima jure.

Zapovijedi jedrinu zadnjem voću;
udijeli mu još dva južnija dana,
nek ispod ploda savine se grana,
a vinu podaj posljednju slatkoću.

Tko sada nema kuće, taj je više
sagradit neće. Tko je sada sam,
ostat će sam, da sluša romon kiše,
da bdije, čita, duga pisma piše,
i luta po alejama, gdje dah
jesenjeg vjetra suho lišće njiše.

[annerri]

ptica dronta kaže:

Molim za njemački orginal.

Stiže s "malim" zakašnjenjem.



Todeserfahrung

Wir wissen nichts von diesem Hingehn, das
nicht mit uns teilt. Wir haben keinen Grund,
Bewunderung und Liebe oder Haß
dem Tod zu zeigen, den ein Maskenmund

tragischer Klage wunderlich entstellt.
Noch ist die Welt voll Rollen, die wir spielen,
solang wir sorgen, ob wir auch gefielen,
spielt auch der Tod, obwohl er nicht gefällt.

Doch als du gingst, da brach in diese Bühne
ein Streifen Wirklichkeit durch jenen Spalt,
durch den du hingingst: Grün wirklicher Grüne,
wirklicher Sonnenschein, wirklicher Wald.

Wir spielen weiter. Bang und schwer Erlerntes
hersagend und Gebärden dann und wann
aufhebend; aber dein von uns entferntes,
aus unserm Stück entrücktes Dasein kann

uns manchmal überkommen, wie ein Wissen
von jener Wirklichkeit sich niedersenkend,
so daß wir eine Weile hingerissen
das Leben spielen, nicht an Beifall denkend.

[annerri]

La terre est bleue

La terre est bleue comme une orange
Jamais une erreur les mots ne mentent pas
Ils ne vous donnent plus à chanter
Au tour des baisers de s'entendre
Les fous et les amours
Elle sa bouche d'alliance
Tous les secrets tous les sourires
Et quels vêtements d'indulgence
À la croire toute nue.
Les guêpes fleurissent vert
L'aube se passe autour du cou
Un collier de fenêtres
Des ailes couvrent les feuilles
Tu as toutes les joies solaires
Tout le soleil sur la terre
Sur les chemins de ta beauté.

Paul Eluard

[ptica dronta]

annerri kaže:

Stiže s "malim" zakašnjenjem.



Todeserfahrung

Wir wissen nichts von diesem Hingehn, das
nicht mit uns teilt. Wir haben keinen Grund,
Bewunderung und Liebe oder Haß
dem Tod zu zeigen, den ein Maskenmund

tragischer Klage wunderlich entstellt.
Noch ist die Welt voll Rollen, die wir spielen,
solang wir sorgen, ob wir auch gefielen,
spielt auch der Tod, obwohl er nicht gefällt.

Doch als du gingst, da brach in diese Bühne
ein Streifen Wirklichkeit durch jenen Spalt,
durch den du hingingst: Grün wirklicher Grüne,
wirklicher Sonnenschein, wirklicher Wald.

Wir spielen weiter. Bang und schwer Erlerntes
hersagend und Gebärden dann und wann
aufhebend; aber dein von uns entferntes,
aus unserm Stück entrücktes Dasein kann

uns manchmal überkommen, wie ein Wissen
von jener Wirklichkeit sich niedersenkend,
so daß wir eine Weile hingerissen
das Leben spielen, nicht an Beifall denkend.

Hej, tek sam sad vidla! Fala!

Sam, gdje je sad nestao hrvatski prijevod?!

[ptica dronta]

Müsset im Naturbetrachten
immer Eins wie Alles achten.
Nichts ist drinnen, nichts ist draußen,
denn was ist innen, das ist außen.

J. W. Goethe

[lilaamrit]

from Endymion

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its lovliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

John Keats

[annerri]

ptica dronta kaže:

Hej, tek sam sad vidla! Fala!

Sam, gdje je sad nestao hrvatski prijevod?!

Hrvatskog prijevoda nije ni bilo, samo kako se ona slika (engleski prijevod), pretvorila u naslovnicu knjige iz koje si izvadila onu stranicu-sliku, ni meni nije jasno, odavde izvađeno, da ne vadim istu.. Imam i drugi prijevod (engleski). pa ako te zanima...


Death Experience

We know nothing of this going away, that
shares nothing with us. We have no reason,
whether astonishment and love or hate,
to display Death, whom a fantastic mask

of tragic lament astonishingly disfigures.
Now the world is still full of roles which we play
as long as we make sure, that, like it or not,
Death plays, too, although he does not please us.

But when you left, a strip of reality broke
upon the stage through the very opening
through which you vanished: Green, true green,
true sunshine, true forest.

We continue our play. Picking up gestures
now and then, and anxiously reciting
that which was difficult to learn; but your far away,
removed out of our performance existence,

sometimes overcomes us, as an awareness
descending upon us of this very reality,
so that for a while we play Life
rapturously, not thinking of any applause.


Rainer Maria Rilke
translate- Cliff Crego

[annerri]

The tiger

Tiger! Tiger! Burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?
What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?


Tigre, tigre, svijetli plame
U dubini šumske tame,
Koja vječna ruka svlada
Silu tvoga strašnog sklada?
Iz kog pakla il' nebesa
Plam je očinjeg ti krijesa?
Koja krila su ga snijela?
Koja zgrabi ruka smjela?
Koja spretnost, koja sila
Satka mrežu tvojih sila?
I od srca prvog zvuka
Koja drhtnu noga, ruka?
Kakav bat? Kog lanca sila?
Koja peć tvoj mozak slila?
Koji viganj? I tko smije
Da se s tvojom pandžom bije?
Kad su prve zvijezde sjale,
Suzama svod osipale,
Jel' se smješko na to djelo
On što stvori janje bijelo?
Tigre, tigre, svijetli plame
U dubini šumske tame,
Koja vječna ruka svlada
Silu tvoga strašnog sklada?

William Blake (1757-1827)

Prijevod-Ivan Goran Kovačić (1913-1943)

[lilaamrit]

You smiled, you spoke and I belived,
By every word and smile - decived.

Another man would hope no more;
Nor hope I - what I hoped before.

But let not this last wish be vain;
Decive, decive me once again!


Walter savage Landor 1775-1864, England

[a kad ono-ja]

evo jedna uzročno-posljednična s poukom:

Sluša selo rastuženo
Pjesmu ptice što umire
To je jedina ptica u selu
To je jedini mačak u selu
A on je nije pojeo cijelu
I ptica prestane pjevati
Mačak prestane presti
I njuškicu umivati
Selo priredi ptici
Veličanstven pogreb
Mačak kojega su pozvali
Hoda iza slamnatog lijesa
Gdje leži mrtva ptica
Nosi ga jedna djevojčica
Plačući do nebesa
Da sam znao koliko će te rastužiti
Reče joj mačak
Pojeo bih je cijelu
I zatom bih rekao selu
Da je odletjela
Odletjela na kraj svijeta
Odakle povratka nema
Ti bi tugovala nijema
S nešto sjete i bola

Nikada ništa ne valja
Činiti samo na pola.

[a kad ono-ja]

zaboravih potpisati. c'est tres importante
by Jacques Prevert

[biancha]

Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there, I did not die.

[biancha]

W. H. Auden


Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

[annerri]

Le soleil brille pour tout le monde

Le soleil brille pour tout le monde, il ne brille pas dans les prisons,
il ne brille pas pour ceux qui travaillent dans la mine,
ceux qui écaillent le poisson
ceux qui mangent de la mauvaise viande
ceux qui fabriquent des épingles à cheveux
ceux qui soufflent vides les bouteilles que d'autres boiront pleines
ceux qui coupent le pain avec leur couteau
ceux qui passent leurs vacances dans les usines
ceux qui ne savent pas ce qu'il faut dire
ceux qui traient les vaches et ne boivent pas le lait
ceux qu'on n'endort pas chez le dentiste
ceux qui crachent leurs poumons dans le métro
ceux qui fabriquent dans les caves les stylos avec lesquels d'autres écriront en plein air que tout va pour le mieux
ceux qui en ont trop à dire pour pouvoir le dire
ceux qui ont du travail
ceux qui n'en ont pas
ceux qui en cherchent
ceux qui n'en cherchent pas
ceux qui donnent à boire aux chevaux
ceux qui regardent leur chien mourir
ceux qui ont le pain quotidien relativement hebdomadaire
ceux qui l'hiver se chauffent dans les églises
ceux que le suisse envoie se chauffer dehors
ceux qui croupissent
ceux qui voudraient manger pour vivre
ceux qui voyagent sous les roues
ceux qui regardent la Seine couler
ceux qu'on engage, qu'on remercie, qu'on augmente, qu'on diminue, qu'on manipule, qu'on fouille qu'on assomme
ceux dont on prend les empreintes
ceux qu'on fait sortir des rangs au hasard et qu'on fusille
ceux qu'on fait défiler devant l'Arc
ceux qui ne savent pas se tenir dans le monde entier
ceux qui n'ont jamais vu la mer
ceux qui sentent le lin parce qu'ils travaillent le lin
ceux qui n'ont pas l'eau courante
ceux qui sont voués au bleu horizon
ceux qui jettent le sel sur la neige moyennant un salaire absolument dérisoire
ceux qui vieillissent plus vite que les autres
ceux qui ne se sont pas baissés pour ramasser l'épingle
ceux qui crèvent d'ennui le dimanche après-midi parce qu'ils voient venir le lundi
et le mardi, et le mercredi, et le jeudi, et le vendredi
et le samedi
et le dimanche après-midi.

Jacques Prévert




Sunce sija za sve ljude

Sunce sija za sve ljude, ono ne sija u zatvorima,
Ono ne sija za one koji rade u rudniku
one koji ljušte ribu
one koji jedu pokvareno meso
one koji prave ukosnice
one koji pušući prave razne boce koje će drugi
ispijati pune
one koji svoj kruh režu svojim nožem
one koji svoje praznike provode u tvornicama
one koji ne znaju što treba kazati
one koji muzu krave i ne piju mlijeko
one koje se ne uspavljuje kod zubara
one koji svoja pluća pljuju u metrou
one koji u podrumima prave nalivpera kojima će
drugi pisati na zraku da sve ide na bolje
one koji o tome imaju isuviše da kažu da bi to mogli
da kažu
one koji imaju posla
one koji ga nemaju
one koji ga traže
one koji ga ne traže
one koji napadaju konje
one koji promatraju kako im umiru psi
one koji kruh svagdanji imaju otprilike jednom
tjedno
one koji se zimi griju u crkvama
one koje crkvenjak tjera da se kriju napolju
one koji gnjile
one koji bi htjeli jesti da žive
one koji putuju pod kotačima
one koji vide protjecati Seinu
one koje se ne unajmljuje, kojima se zahvaljuje, koje
se povećava, koje se smanjuje, koje se udešava,
koje se pretražuje i koje se umlati
one kojih se otisci uzimaju
one koje se na sreću izvlači iz redova i koje se
strijelja
one koje u paradi provode ispred Slavoluka
one koji se ne znaju ponašati u cijelom svijetu
one koji nikada nisu vidjeli more
one koji zaudaraju po lanu jer s lanom rade
one koji nemaju tekuću vodu
one koji su plavom horizontu posvećeni
koji sol bacaju na snijeg polučujući jednu potpuno
smiješnu plaću
one koji stare brže od ostalih
one koji se nisu prignuli da pokupe pribadaču
one koji crkavaju od dosade nedjeljom poslijepodne
jer vide kako dolazi ponedjeljak
i utorak, i srijeda, i četvrtak, i petak
i subota
i nedjelja poslijepodne.

[avant-garde]

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
and sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, 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 feet 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 travelled by,
and that has made all the difference

Robert Frost

[avant-garde]

Since feeling is first

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world.

my blood approves
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady, i swear by all the flowers. Don't cry
--the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelid's flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis.

E.E.Cummings

[avant-garde]

(...)

But you’ve to live without phony,
To live such life that, after all,
To gain love of the space symphony,
And answer to the future’s call,

And oft to leave gaps in your traces
In fate, but in the papers, crooked,
To mark the chapters and main places
On margins of your being’s book,

To fully sink in the unknown,
And hide in it your own steps
Like hide itself, if mist is grown,
The whole landscape of the place.

The others, by the living traces,
Will pass your way through, bit by bit,
But wins and losses of your battles
You have not to discern on it.

You’ve never – not by fate or folly –
To lose an atom of your face,
But – be alive, alive and only,
Alive and only, till your last.

Boris Pasternak