Silvia Tuvene. Muza

pe langa faptul ca nu am mai scris de foarta multa vreme, nici nu am mai citit poezie de multa vreme. ca sa recuperez mai jos, pablo neruda: the saddest poem.

i can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

write, for instance: “the night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.”

the night wind whirls in the sky and sings.
Continue Reading »

ce mi s-a parut intotdeauna genial la t.s. eliot este modul in care reuseste sa creeze imagini. the waste land este poate una dintre cele mai bogate imagerii din cate mi-a fost dat sa citesc. nici ritmul ei atat de vibrant, nu este de neglijat, dar imaginile sunt extrem de pregnante, pe alocuri creand un discomfort fizic cititorilor.

mai jos un fragment

Unreal City,

Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying ‘Stetson!
‘You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
‘That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
‘Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
‘Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
‘Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
‘Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
‘You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!’