Uzvik ljubavi

Za Dom je spreman i život dati
samo domoljub u kojem struji
ljubav od svake mržnje čista
u kojoj radost života bruji.

Za Dom je spreman i život dati
onaj koji ga srcem voli,
jer kada brani voljenu zemlju
ništa mu ne znači život goli.

Za Dom je spreman i život dati
samo onaj u kome gori,
plamen ljubavi što ga tjera
da se protiv zločina bori.

Za Dom vječno klicati mora
Hrvatskoj svojoj odani sin,
u njemu nema zločina mržnje
s kojom se daje ustaški čin.

Jer kada Hrvatsku voliš glasno
moraš nosit i biljeg fašiste,
Hrvatu poznati otrov zmijski
Pete kolone, i - mržnje čiste.


Vicko Goluža

SAM

Lose vibracije svud oko mene,
ruke se stezu oko mog vrata
i opor miris gusi mi razum.
Nekad sam voleo biti u drustvu,
al mene ljudi tu ne shvataju,
sad barijere mentalne pravim.

Jer sad sam sam

Od reke ljudi sto hodaju gradom,
ne mogu naci slicnog coveka,
ni prijatelja ja vise nemam.
Tisina sad je svud oko mene
i gubim sliku sta je to stvarnost,
lavirint reci mi sad pravi zbrku.

Jer sad sam sam

Da li prokletstvo to mene prati,
dok se strah uvlaci u sve moje pore,
jedini prijatelj sa mojim umom.
I mracna soba i fijuk vetra,
domine padaju jedna za drugom,
korak po korak tonem sve dublje.

Jer sad sam sam

Bgd 1996

Tse`gíhi.
2. House made of the dawn.
3. House made of evening light.
4. House made of the dark cloud.
5. House made of male rain.
6. House made of dark mist.
7. House made of female rain.
8. House made of pollen.
9. House made of grasshoppers.
10. Dark cloud is at the door.
11. The trail out of it is dark cloud.
12. The zigzag lightning stands high up on it.
13. Male deity!
14. Your offering I make.
15. I have prepared a smoke for you.
16. Restore my feet for me.
17. Restore my legs for me.
18. Restore my body for me.
19. Restore my mind for me.
20. Restore my voice for me.
21. This very day take out your spell for me.
22. Your spell remove for me.
23. You have taken it away for me.
24. Far off it has gone.
25. Happily I recover.
26. Happily my interior becomes cool.
27. Happily I go forth.
28. My interior feeling cold, may I walk.
29. No longer sore, may I walk.



30. Impervious to pain, may I walk.
31. With lively feelings may I walk.
32. As it used to be long ago, may I walk.
33. Happily may I walk.
34. Happily with abundant dark clouds, may I walk.
35. Happily with abundant showers, may I walk.
36. Happily with abundant plants, may I walk.
37. Happily on a trail of pollen, may I walk.
38. Happily may I walk.
39. Being as it used to be long ago, may I walk.
40. May it be happy (or beautiful) before me.
41. May it be beautiful behind me.
42, May it be beautiful below me.
43. May it be beautiful above me.
44. May it be beautiful all around me.
45. In beauty it is finished.
46. In beauty it is finished.

Ovo je obredna pjesma Navaho Indijanaca (prevedena na engleski, naravno) koju je N. Scott Momaday uključio u svoj roman House made of dawn.

Današnji haiku

Pišem haiku
Nakon odjeba brzog
Jebe mi se

Amanet od đeda

Osman Đikić

U dolafu moga đeda
s desne strane u pretincu,
kad još bijah grješno d'jete
viđah malu ikonicu.

Prikradoh se da razgledam,
Kakva li je na njoj slika,
Bješe srebrom optočena
Slika Đurđa mučenika.

Ja to onda nisam znao.
Zazir'o sam od aždaje,
Al' s aždajom ko se bori,
Osjeć'o sam, junak da je.

Samo zato, samo zato,
Ja poljubih tog čovjeka.
Đed uniđe – ja se zbunih –
A on reče: 'Neka, neka!

Istog Đurđa, ljubili su
Naši preci ko svečari,
Pa zar da jađunah ljubnut'
Što ljubljahu naši stari.

Al' ti n'jesi poljubio
Samo hader – ilijaza,
I poljupce si poljubio
Svojih rahmet praotaca'.

Tako đedo, al' on ode
Već odavno s ovog sv'jeta,
A ja čuvam ikonicu
Pored drugih amaneta.

Al' ja zato, Alah-ikber,
Čvrsto s držim svog mezheba,
A mezheb mi ništ' ne smeta
Da srbujem kako treba''.

---

Prelijepa pjesma.

Bio jednom jedan car,
pa imao golem kar.
Imao je i tri sina,
u svakoga po k*rcina.
Svaki k*rac pravo reci,
od drenova budze veci.
Njim se sluzi mesto maca,
sva tri brata tri j*baca.
Jednom car ih sva tri srete,
pa ih pita: “Sta j*bete?”
Al’ govore sva tri brata:
“Nista tata, nista tata.”
Car se zgranu pa im veli:
“Sta? Lenstine i dembeli!
Zar vi deca carske krvi,
u tom poslu niste prvi?
Dangubite, tesko meni,
a k*rcevi besposleni.”
Pa zapreti prvom sinu:
“Izbegavas j*bacinu.”
Drugog sina zatim grdi:
“Tebi p*cka mozda smrdi?”
Treceg sina psuje, ruzi:
“Cemu li ti k*rac sluzi?”
Pa se zatim dalje zesti:
“Ej, da li ste vi pri svesti?
U ustavu carstva moga
ima stavka vrlo stroga.
Zene, ljudi, pa i deca
svako mora da se keca.
Ja jos uvek primer dajem,
sa j*banjem ne prestajem.
Iako sam vrlo star,
j*bem carski jer sam car.”
Uspomene cara muce,
pa k*rcinu on izvuce.
Zgranuse se sva tri sina,
uplasi ih ta k*rcina.
Jer to bese neman prava,
k’o azdaja sedmoglava!
Jedan rece: “Braco slatka,
zar postoji takva patka?
Da li sanjam il’ sam lud,
kakav grdan, strasan ud.”
Car svoj k*rac setno gleda,
secanje mu mira neda.
U ruke ga nezno uze,
iz oci mu kanu suze.
Pa ga stipka, pipka, cima,
i govori sinovima:
“Kad bi znali, kuku, jao,
sta je sve taj poj*bao.
Tri carice saveznicke,
sto imaju tesne p*cke.
Trtila je ova kara,
zene raznih ministara.
Dvesta i dve vojvotkinje,
sto se j*bu kao svinje.
cetrdeset i pet princeza,
i jos uz to dva-tri kneza.
Nicega se on ne stidi,
j*be gde god rupu vidi.
Predrasude nema glupe,
voli p*cku k’o i dupe.
Poj*bo je sve cinove:
pocevçi od generala,
sto im guza nije mala.
Preko lepih porucnika,
pa do smrdljivih vojnika.
sto na suvom zivi hlebu,
pa se dere kad ga j*bu.
On me i sad dobro sluzi,
zato primer nek vam pruzi.
J*be vredno sta god stigne,
i za tren se oka digne.
J*be ozgo i sa strane,
i nikad mi ne omane.
J*be spreda kako s guza,
tvrd je kao klip kukuruza.
J*be besno, jebe strasno,
i nikad mi nije splasno.
Krut je kao suva grana,
u po noci i po dana.
Za zasluge zbog j*banja,
dobio je sva priznanja:
Orden “Zlatne p*cke” ima,
s ukrstenim k*rcevima.
Zatim dalje krasi njega,
“Lenta venerinoga brega”.
Zbog j*banja samo spreda,
“Svetu kitu” prvog reda.
Zbog j*backog grdnog truda,
nosi orden “Zlatnih m*da”.
I jos lista nije puna,
tu je “Lenta p*cjeg runa”.
Pa “Medalja mracne rupe”,
i “Plaketa tesno d*pe”.
Pa “Rozeta male p*ce”,
i “Orden svete podguzice”.

http://hahabre.com/2009/05/balada-o-luz ... oj-nemani/

Jedna iz studentskih dana

Short Speech to My Friends

A political art, let it be
tenderness, low strings the fingers
touch, or the width of autumn
climbing wider avenues, among the virtue
and dignity of knowing what city
you’re in, who to talk to, what clothes
—even what buttons—to wear. I address
/ the society
the image, of
common utopia.

/ The perversity
of separation, isolation,
after so many years of trying to enter their kingdoms,
now they suffer in tears, these others, saxophones whining
through the wooden doors of their less than gracious homes.
The poor have become our creators. The black. The thoroughly
ignorant.
Let the combination of morality
and inhumanity
begin.


2.

Is power, the enemy? (Destroyer
of dawns, cool flesh of valentines, among
the radios, pauses, drunks
of the 19th century. I see it,
as any man's single history. All the possible heroes
dead from heat exhaustion
at the beach
or hiding for years from cameras
only to die cheaply in the pages
of our daily lie.
One hero
has pretensions toward literature
one toward the cultivation of errors, arrogance,
and constantly changing disguises, as trucker, boxer,
valet, barkeep, in the aging taverns of memory. Making love
to those speedy heroines of masturbation or kicking literal evil
continually down filmy public stairs.

A compromise
would be silence. To shut up, even such risk
as the proper placement
of verbs and nouns. To freeze the spit
in mid-air, as it aims itself
at some valiant intellectual's face.

There would be someone
who would understand, for whatever
fancy reason. Dead, lying, Roi, as your children
cane up, would also rise. As George Armstrong Custer
these 100 years, has never made
a mistake.

Amiri Baraka (1934 - 2014)

Mary did you know that your baby boy will some day walk on water?
Mary did you know that your baby boy will save our sons and daughters?
Did you know that your baby boy has come to make you new?
This child that you've delivered, will soon deliver you.

Mary did you know that your baby boy will give sight to a blind man?
Mary did you know that your baby boy will calm a storm with his hand?
Did you know that your baby boy has walked where angels trod?
And when you kiss your little baby, you have kissed the face of God.

Oh, Mary did you know?

The blind will see, the deaf will hear, the dead will live again.
The lame will leap, the dumb will speak, the praises of the lamb.

Mary did you know that your baby boy is Lord of all creation?
Mary did you know that your baby boy would one day rule the nations?
Did you know that your baby boy is heaven's perfect Lamb?
This sleeping child you're holding is the great I Am.

Mark Lowry

Bowery Blues

The story of man
Makes me sick
Inside, outside,
I don't know why
Something so conditional
And all talk
Should hurt me so.

I am hurt
I am scared
I want to live
I want to die
I don't know
Where to turn
In the Void
And when
To cut
Out

For no Church told me
No Guru holds me
No advice
Just stone
Of New York
And on the cafeteria
We hear
The saxophone
O dead Ruby
Died of Shot
In Thirty Two,
Sounding like old times
And de bombed
Empty decapitated
Murder by the clock.

And I see Shadows
Dancing into Doom
In love, holding
TIght the lovely asses
Of the little girls
In love with sex
Showing themselves
In white undergarments
At elevated windows
Hoping for the Worst.

I can't take it
Anymore
If I can't hold
My little behind
To me in my room

Then it's goodbye
Sangsara
For me
Besides
Girls aren't as good
As they look
And Samadhi
Is better
Than you think
When it starts in
Hitting your head
In with Buzz
Of glittergold
Heaven's Angels
Wailing

Saying

We've been waiting for you
Since Morning, Jack
Why were you so long
Dallying in the sooty room?
This transcendental Brilliance
Is the better part
(of Nothingness
I sing)

Okay.
Quit.
Mad.
Stop.

Jack Kerouac (1929 - 1969)

Alone With Everybody

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.

Charles Bukowski (1920-1994)

A Terror is More Certain . . .


A terror is more certain than all the rare desirable popular songs I
know, than even now when all of my myths have become . . . , & walk
around in black shiny galoshes & carry dirty laundry to & fro, & read
great books & don’t know criminals intimately, & publish fat books of
the month & have wifeys that are lousy in bed & never realize how
bad my writing is because i am poor & symbolize myself.

A certain desirable is more terror to me than all that’s rare. How
come they don’t give an academic award to all the movie stars that
die? they’re still acting, ain’t they? even if they are dead, it should
not be held against them, after all they still have the public on their
side, how would you like to be a dead movie star & have people sit-
ting on your grave?

A rare me is more certain than desirable, that’s all the terror, there
are too many basketball players in this world & too much progress
in the burial industry, lets have old fashioned funerals & stand
around & forgive & borrow wet handkerchiefs, & sneak out for
drinks & help load the guy into the wagon, & feel sad & make a
date with the widow & believe we don’t see all of the people sink-
ing into the subways going to basketball games & designing baby
sitters at Madison Square Garden.

A certain me is desirable, what is so rare as air in a Poem, why can’t
i write a foreign movie like all the other boys my age, I confess to all
the crimes committed during the month of April, but not to save
my own neck, which is adjustable, & telescopes into any size noose,
I’m doing it to save Gertrude Stein’s reputation, who is secretly
flying model airplanes for the underground railroad stern gang of
oz, & is the favorite in all the bouts . . . not officially opened yet
Holland tunnel is the one who writes untrue phone numbers.

A desirable poem is more rare than rare, & terror is certain, who
wants to be a poet & work a twenty four hour shift, they never ask
you first, who wants to listen to the radiator play string quartets all
night. I want to be allowed not to be, suppose a man wants to
swing on the kiddie swings, should people be allowed to stab him
with queer looks & drag him off to bed & its no fun on top of a
lady when her hair is full of shiny little machines & your ass
reflected in that television screen, who wants to be a poet if you
fuck on t.v. & all those cowboys watching.

Bob Kaufman (1925–1986)

Sorry, mi imamo English sekciju za komentare i tekstove na Engleskom jeziku.

There is a Way of Committing Suicide

there is a way of committing suicide
called poetry.
there is a way of taking a knife
and carving from the infinite nothingness of the sky
a solitary cell
in which one spends a lifetime pacing about
occasionally shouting messages
through the barred cell window
at indifferent passers by.
there is a way of trying to create a universe
with all its constellations
from the view of people scurrying by
in the rain with their umbrellas up,
a way of ruling a nation of shadows.
there is a way of imagining
one possesses all the secrets of the soul
and that this gift will provide one with freedom,
a way of imagining all the sights
not yet photographed by the travel agencies,
there is a way of believing
one has special dreams
that one is an individual
a poet!
ahh go to the zoo
there you will find the true poets.

Sinclair Beiles (1930 - 2000)

RAT

Isrkčite
kreteni
iskrčite
Sve mlado drveće starom sekirom
isecite ga
Iskrčite
kreteni
iskrčite ga
A staro drveće sa starim korenjem
sa veštačkim zubalom
sačuvajte ga
I okačite natpis
Drveće Dobra i Zla
Drveće Pobede
Drveće Slobode
I pusta šuma bazdiće po starom crknutom
drvetu
i ptice će pobeći iz nje
a vi ćete onda ostati tu da pevate
Ostaćete tu
kreteni
da pevate i da defilujete.

Žak Prever (1900-1977)

TRAŽIM REČ

Jednom bih rečju da ih opišem:
kakvi?
Uzimam reči proste, kradem iz rečnika
merim, vagam, izučavam -
Nijedna nikad
nije prava.

Svaka najodvažnija - strašljiva,
svaka najpogrdnija - puna svetosti.
Svaka najokrutnija - odveć milostiva,
svaka omraze puna - s premalo jarosti.

Ta reč mora biti kao vulkan,
nek bije, kida, ruši,
ko strahotni gnev božji,
ko mržnja nek se puši.

Hoću tu jednu reč, samu,
krvlju natopljenu:
nek ko zid oko gubilišta
primi u sebe svaka zajedničku jamu.
Nek opiše jače no išta
ko behu oni - šta im se spremalo.
Jer ono čim sluh mi diše,
jer ono što se piše, -
sve je premalo.
Premalo.

Vislava Šimborska (1923 - 2012)

Prigodna

Pukla daska na sredini MOSTA
Jadni Zoran na cjedilu osta.
Nij' daleko od zemlje vrhuška
Danas pijeto, a sutra peruška.
Oj Zorane bliži ti se Zora
Prijestolje se ostaviti mora.
Pakuj tralje, pali limuzine,
Ti i Vesna hajte preko Drine...
Neka s vama ide vaša klapa
Stjeraste nas do prosjačkog štapa.
Oj pusićko odvratna i gruba
Mrziteljko naših domoljuba,
Kad ne voliš crven bijeli plavi,
A što radiš u našoj državi.
Šta se ono po Zagrebu praši?
Pobjegoše jugocrvenjaši.
Druže tito ljubičice bijela
Ode k vragu tvoja klika cijela.
Marš titići s hrvatskog temelja
Na rastanku to nam zadnja želja.
Ne daj Bože drugoga Zorana
I crvenih jugopartizana.
Domovino ne dam te nikome
Svetinja si rodu hrvatskome.
Sretan Božić ispaćeni rode
Novo ljeto, put je do slobode.

Marija Dubravac, Brisbane

O ZAVIČAJU


Zavičaj radi samo u srpnju i kolovozu.
Moj zavičaj je onoliko koliko ja odredim.
Zavičaj mi ne može odrapiti nekoliko godina naklonosti -
uvjetno.
Sunce tuđeg neba dalo je sjajnih rezultata.
Zavičaj je naivan.
Utrapi mu se tko god stigne.
Zavičaj ima skroman glazbeni ukus.
Najlošiji tekstopisci drmaju zavičajem.
Zavičaj ima kvadraturu vikendice.
Ljubav prema zavičaju je neuzvraćena.
Zavičaj na putu.
Zavičajem protiv zavičaja.

A.D.

Ako pitaš šta je islam, evo šta:
čisto srce, dobra duša koja zna
da je život zdrav i radin, krepostan,
ko molitva Bogu dragom ugodan.

Bit' na korist okolini, rodu svom,
volit ljude kao braću dušom svom,
vjerovati da se zloća vraća zlim,
a dobrota nagrađuje najljepšim.

Častan život međ' ljudima proživit',
gdje god možeš dobro djelo učinit',
naukom se i poštenjem okitit',
djecu svoju u islamu odgojit'.

Svakom djelu nijjet iskren treba dat',
u Boga se punim srcem pouzdat'.
Sa smirenjem treba primit svaki kraj,
gdje je sreća, a gdje žalost - hajde znaj!

Sve zakone i pouke životne,
sve istine i ljepote duhovne,
od bešike pa do Dana sudnjega
načela su iz Kur'ana mudroga.

Ko se po tom za života svog vlada
može reći da islamu pripada.
A Bog znade ko je kakav - samo On,-
nek udjeli milost vječnu robu svom!
(Rešad Kadić)

+1

O zaostalosti

Zaostalost je postala jedna vrsta mode. Pomodno je i popularno biti zaostao.... civilizovani sa zavišću gledaju na zaostale. Zaostali su postali nosioci napretka, sinonim zdravlja, avangarde.
Iz zaostalosti se ne može nazad. Zaostalost zna samo za napred. Danas samo zaostalost može da korača krupnim koracima.
Jedino zaostali imaju budućnost.
Samo još gladni imaju nade da će biti siti. Siti su već siti.
Kao što pocepani imaju lepši san od elegantnih, samo još porobljeni mogu sanjati slobodu.
Otuda superiornost zaostalih leži na čvrstim osnovama. Njihova budućnost je sasvim izvesna. Od istorije civilizovanih oni će krojiti sebi budućnost. Nemaju razloga da ponavljaju očigledne greške i gluposti.
Gladni i bosi, puni snova, snage i nade, zaostali će tek doživeti nostalgične trenutke naše lepe prošlosti. Naše najlepše uspomene tek treba da budu njihova stvarnost.
Njihovoj dokolici nije potrebna naučna fantastika. Oni sanjaju viljuške, točkove, pegle, prve novine, pronalazak filma, radija i televizije.
Oni su gladni naše sitosti.
Divnog li uzbudjenja, veličanstvene li gladi i radoznalosti.
Blago zaostalima, teško onima koji to nisu!
Blago još uvek željnima pravde, slobode i jednakosti! Jedino oni imaju za šta i živeti i umreti. Jedino će još oni biti hrabri, časni, slavljeni. Oni će tek imati svoje pesnike!
Poučeni iskustvom već sitih i civilizovanih, oni će podizati blistavije revolucije i vositit spektakularnije ratove.
Njihov Napoleon biće viši. Njihov Aleksandar Makedonski živeće duže. Njihov Brut neće ubiti Cezara.
Teško onima koji su na cilju. Oni su bez cilja. Oni koji su ostvarili svoje snove, nemaju više šta sanjati. Slobodni će trunuti u nepromenljivosti slobode. Siti sreće, oni će se okrenuti nesreći.
Tako, dok ideal primitivnih ostaje dobro, emancipovani blazirano traže promenu u zlu.
Civilizovani pune svoja groblja samoubicama, zaostali – gladnima.
Siti bi hteli da doviknu gladnima, da nije sva sreća ni u sitosti, ali ih gladni ne čuju. Odeveni se skidaju, postaju nudisti, a goli kradu njihova odela, hladno im je i željni su elegancije.
Zaostali svaki zalogaj proglašavaju praznikom, svaki dan korakom ka sreći.
Civilizovani gledaju zaostale na malim i velikim ekranima, ne mogu da se načude toj hladnokrvnosti koja nikuda ne vodi. Kaju se za svoju radoznalost i nestrpljenje, rado bi iz gledališta utrčali na teren da sami sudeluju u igri. Međutim, kasno je. Svako samo jedanput prolazi svoj put. Unazad se ništa ne može ispravljati. Unapred može, i to će zaostali učiniti.
Budimo dobri sa zaostalima, možda će nam pokloniti koji zalogaj svoje gladi i gutljaj svoje žeđi.

Matija Bećković

Balada o nesrećnoj glisti

Kiša pada, priroda je čista,
nešto živo mrda se kroz travu.
Iz skrovišta izmilela glista
i kroz travu pomolila glavu...
Od ljubavi živahna je ona
jer je glista romantično biće.
Hrabro traži slobodnog glistona
da sa njime napravi glistiće.
Da hodnike svud po zemlji buše,
da zajedno vaspitaju mlade,
da zajedno strahuju od suše,
da se vole do kraja balade...
Dugo glista tražila glistona,
kiša stade, priroda se prlja...
Dejstvom jednog neopreznog đona
nesta gliste, osta samo mrlja!!!

Bora Đorđević