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 Poetry favourites


"Era o fantana", de Elena Farago,
pusa pe muzica de "Celelalte cuvinte" ca
"In zori de zi", recitata de Florian Pitis

Pe-o lunga si aspra si stearpa sosea,

Ca toate soselele lumii.

Pe-o lunga si aspra si stearpa sosea,

Era o fantana cu ciutura grea.

Caci apa-si cladise, trecand peste ea,

In straturi, pojghitele humii.

Era o fantana cu cumpana grea,

Ca toate fantanile vietii.

Era o fantana cu cumpana grea,

Cu apa salcie si calda si rea.

Dar furca cu bratele-ntinse pandea,

Momind de departe drumetii.

Zoreau insetatii s-ajunga sa bea,

Ca toti insetatii din viata.

Trageau cu putere de cumpana grea

Dar apa salcie si calda-i gonea.

Si-ades cate unul mai tanar pleca

Cu lacrimi de ciuda pe fata.


Si-ades cate unul mai varstnic radea

Ca toti ce-o cunosc: APA VIETII.


Era o fantana cu cumpana grea,

Cu apa salcie si calda si rea.

Dar furca cu bratele-ntinse pandea,

Momind de departe drumetii.


"Emotie de toamna" de Nichita Stanescu (1985),
pusa pe muzica de Nicu Alifantis

A venit toamna, acopera-mi inima cu ceva
cu umbra unui copac sau mai bine cu umbra ta.

Ma tem ca n-am sa te mai vad uneori
ca au sa-mi creasca aripi ascutite pana la nori
C-ai sa te-ascunzi intr-un ochi strain
si el o sa se-nchida c-o frunza de pelin.

Si-atunci m-apropii de pietre si tac
iau cuvintele si le-nec in mare
suier luna si-o rasar si-o prefac
intr-o dragoste mare.

                   "Ce bine ca esti" de Nichita Stanescu (1985)


                       E o întâmplare a fiintei mele
                       si atunci fericirea dinlauntrul meu
                       e mai puternica decât mine, decât oasele mele,
                       pe care mi le scrisnesti intr-o imbratisare
                       mereu dureroasa, minunata mereu.

                       Sã stam de vorba, sã vorbim, sã spunem cuvinte
                       lungi, sticloase, ca niste dalti ce despart
                       fluviul rece în delta fierbinte,
                       ziua de noapte, bazaltul de bazalt.

                       Du-mã, fericire, în sus, si izbeste-mi
                       timpla de stele, pânã când
                       lumea mea prelunga si în nesfirsire
                       se face coloana sau altceva
                       mult mai inalt si mult mai curând.

                       Ce bine ca esti, ce mirare ca sunt!
                       Doua cântece diferite, lovindu-se amestecindu-se,
                       doua culori ce nu s-au vãzut niciodata,
                       una foarte de jos, intoarsa spre pãmânt,
                       una foarte de sus, aproape rupta
                       în infrigurata, neasemuita lupta
                       a minunii ca esti, a-ntimplarii ca sunt.


"Si daca?" de Mihai Eminescu (1883)

Si daca ramuri bat in geam

Si se cutremur plopii,

E ca in minte sa te am

Si-ncet sa te apropii.

Si daca stele bat in lac

Adancu-i luminandu-l,

E ca durerea mea s-o-mpac
 Inseninandu-mi gandul.

Si daca norii desi se duc

De iese-n luciu luna,

E ca aminte sa-mi aduc

De tine-ntotdeuna.

"La steaua" de Mihai Eminescu (1886)

La steaua care-a rasarit
E-o cale-atât de lunga,
Ca mii de ani i-au trebuit
Luminii sa ne-ajunga.

 Poate de mult s-a stins în drum
În departari albastre,
Iar raza ei abia acum
Luci vederii noastre.

Icoana stelei ce-a murit
Încet pe cer se suie;
Era pe când nu s-a zarit,
Azi o vedem, si nu e.

Tot astfel când al nostru dor
Pieri în noapte-adânca,
Lumina stinsului amor
Ne urmareste înca.




"Hamlet" act 3 scene 1, by William Shakespeare


To be, or not to be: that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.-


Sonnet 60 by William Shakespeare

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand.
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.


Days, by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,
Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,
And marching single in an endless file,
Bring diadems and faggots in their hands.
To each they offer gifts after his will,
Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all.
I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp,
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
Turned and departed silent. I, too late,
Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.

                A dream within a dream, by Edgar Allan Poe

          Take this kiss upon the brow!
          And, in parting from you now,
          Thus much let me avow-
          You are not wrong, who deem
          That my days have been a dream;
          Yet if hope has flown away
          In a night, or in a day,
          In a vision, or in none,
          Is it therefore the less gone?
          All that we see or seem
          Is but a dream within a dream.

          I stand amid the roar
          Of a surf-tormented shore,
          And I hold within my hand
          Grains of the golden sand-
          How few! yet how they creep
          Through my fingers to the deep,
          While I weep- while I weep!
          O God! can I not grasp
          Them with a tighter clasp?
          O God! can I not save
          One from the pitiless wave?
          Is all that we see or seem
          But a dream within a dream?



The Raven, by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my heart grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Thouhg its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet violet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from tha memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take tha form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

 "O captain! my captain!" by Walt Whitman


O captain! my captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the stead keel, the vessel grim and daring.

But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red!
Where on the deck my captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.


O captain! my captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up! for you the flag is flung, for you the bugle trills:
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths, for you the shores a-crowding:
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning.

O captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck
You've fallen cold and dead.


My captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will.
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done:
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won!

Exult, O abores! and ring, O bells!
But I, with silent tread,
Walk the spot my captain lies
Fallen cold and dead.




"Hier au soir," Les contemplations,  Victor Hugo (1856)

Hier, le vent du soir, dont le souffle caresse,
Nous apportait l'odeur des fleurs qui s'ouvrent tard ;
La nuit tombait ; l'oiseau dormait dans l'ombre épaisse.
Le printemps embaumait, moins que votre jeunesse ;
Les astres rayonnaient, moins que votre regard.

Moi, je parlais tout bas. C'est l'heure solennelle
Où l'âme aime à chanter son hymne le plus doux.
Voyant la nuit si pure et vous voyant si belle,
J'ai dit aux astres d'or : Versez le ciel sur elle !
Et j'ai dit à vos yeux : Versez l'amour sur nous !

"Harmonie du soir," Les fleurs du mal,  Charles Baudelaire (1857)


Voici venir les temps où vibrant sur sa tige
Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir;
Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l'air du soir;
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!

Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir;
Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu'on afflige;
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir.

Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu'on afflige,
Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir!
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir;
Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige.

Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir,
Du passé lumineux recueille tout vestige!
Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige...
Ton souvenir en moi luit comme un ostensoir!


"La musique," Les fleurs du mal,  Charles Baudelaire (1857)


La musique souvent me prend comme une mer!
Vers ma pâle étoile,
Sous un plafond de brume ou dans un vaste éther,
Je mets à la voile ;

La poitrine en avant et les poumons gonflés
Comme de la toile,
J'escalade le dos des flots amoncelés
Que la nuit me voile;

Je sens vibrer en moi toutes les passions
D'un vaisseau qui souffre ;
Le bon vent, la tempête et ses convulsions

Sur l'immense gouffre
Me bercent. D'autres fois, calme plat, grand miroir
De mon désespoir!

"Chanson d'automne," Poemes saturniens,  Paul Verlaine (1866)


Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l'automne
Blessent mon cœur
D'une langueur

Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l'heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure

Et je m'en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m'emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte (site consacre au poetes francais du 19eme siecle) (une excellente collection de poesie francophone du
Moyen Age au 19eme siecle; tres bien organisee) (plus de 6100 poemes de langue francaise)



"Inferno", Canto I, Divina Commedia, Dante Alighieri, 1-9.



Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita


mi ritrovai per una selva oscura


ché la diritta via era smarrita.



Ahi quanto a dir qual era è cosa dura


esta selva selvaggia e aspra e forte


che nel pensier rinova la paura!



Tant'è amara che poco è più morte;


ma per trattar del ben ch'i' vi trovai,


dirò de l'altre cose ch'i' v'ho scorte.



"Purgatorio", Canto XXX, Divina Commedia, Dante Alighieri, 64-75.



vidi la donna che pria m'appario


velata sotto l'angelica festa,


drizzar li occhi ver' me di qua dal rio.



Tutto che 'l vel che le scendea di testa,


cerchiato de le fronde di Minerva,


non la lasciasse parer manifesta,



regalmente ne l'atto ancor proterva


continuò come colui che dice


e 'l più caldo parlar dietro reserva:



«Guardaci ben! Ben son, ben son Beatrice.


Come degnasti d'accedere al monte?


non sapei tu che qui è l'uom felice?».

"Paradiso", Canto II, Divina Commedia, Dante Alighieri, 1-15.


O voi che siete in piccioletta barca,


desiderosi d'ascoltar, seguiti


dietro al mio legno che cantando varca,



tornate a riveder li vostri liti:


non vi mettete in pelago, ché forse,


perdendo me, rimarreste smarriti.



L'acqua ch'io prendo già mai non si corse;


Minerva spira, e conducemi Appollo,


e nove Muse mi dimostran l'Orse.



Voialtri pochi che drizzaste il collo


per tempo al pan de li angeli, del quale


vivesi qui ma non sen vien satollo,



metter potete ben per l'alto sale


vostro navigio, servando mio solco


dinanzi a l'acqua che ritorna equale.

-Divina Commedia (full Italian and English versions)


  "Erlkonig", (1780), Johann Wolfgang Goethe

Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?
Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind;
Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm,
Er faßt ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm.

»Mein Sohn, was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht?« -
»Siehst, Vater, du den Erlkönig nicht?
Den Erlenkönig mit Kron und Schweif?« -
»Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif.« -

»Du liebes Kind, komm, geh mit mir!
Gar schöne Spiele spiel ich mit dir;
Manch bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand,
Meine Mutter hat manch gülden Gewand.«

»Mein Vater, mein Vater, und hörest du nicht,
Was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht?« -
»Sie ruhig, bliebe ruhig, mein Kind:
In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind.« -

»Willst, feiner Knabe, du mit mir gehn?
Meine Töchter sollen dich warten schön;
Meine Töchter führen den nächtlichen Reihn
Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein.«

»Mein Vater, mein Vater, und siehst du nicht dort
Erlkönigs Töchter am düstern Ort?« -
»Mein Sohn, mein Sohn, ich seh es genau:
Es scheinen die altern Weiden so grau.« -

»Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt;
Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt.«
»Mein Vater, mein Vater, jetzt faßt er mich an!
Erlkönig hat mir ein Leids getan!« -

Dem Vater grausets, er reitet geschwind,
Er hält in Armen das ächzende Kind,
Erreicht den Hof mit Mühe und Not:
In seinen Armen das Kind war tot.

Inspira "Jocul ielelor", cantata de Compact

Cine goneste prin noapte ca vantul?
E-un tata ce tine la piept al sau fiu.
Calul in goana inghite pamantul
Si-n haos ii zboara copilului gandul
        Ii zboara-n pustiu.

Copil minunat haide, vino cu mine,
Si jocul de aur jucav-om pe plaur.
Flori multe-n dar primi-vei de la zane
Si zana cea mare de vrei te va tine
        Pe brate de aur.

Zburand ca sageata ce scapa din coarda
Isi vede in zare casuta albind.
Fiul sta gata din brate sa-i cada
Si-ajunge sarmanul tata sa-si vada
        Copilul murind.


"Die Lorelei,"(1824) Heinrich Heine

Ich weiss nicht, was soll es bedeuten,
Dass ich so traurig bin;
Ein Märchen aus alten Zeiten,
Das kommt mir nicht aus dem Sinn.
Die Luft ist kühl, und es dunkelt,
Und ruhig fliesst der Rhein;
Der Gipfel des Berges funkelt
Im Abendsonnenschein.
Die schönste Jungfrau sitzet
Dort oben wunderbar,
Ihr goldenes Geschmeide blitzet,
Sie kämmt ihr goldenes Haar.
Sie kämmt es mit goldenem Kamme
Und singt ein Lied dabei;
Das hat eine wundersame,
Gewaltige Melodei.
Den Schiffer im kleinen Schiffe
Ergreift es mit wildem Weh;
Er schaut nicht die Felsenriffe,
Er schat nur hinauf in die Höh.
Ich glaube, die Welllen verschlingen
Am Ende Schiffer und Kahn;
Und das hat mit ihrem Singen
Die Lorelei getan.

English translation by Mark Twain

I cannot divine what it meaneth,
This haunting nameless pain:
A tale of the bygone ages
Keeps brooding through my brain:

The faint air cools in the gloaming,
And peaceful flows the Rhine,
The thirsty summits are drinking
The sunset's flooding wine;

The loveliest maiden is sitting
High-throned in yon blue air,
Her golden jewels are shining,
She combs her golden hair;

She combs with comb that is golden,
And sings a weird refrain
That steeps in a deadly enchantment
The listener's ravished brain:

The doomed in his drifting shallop,
Is tranced with the sad sweet tone,
He sees not the yawing breakers,
He sees but the maid alone:

The pitiless billwos engulf him!-
So perish sailor and bark;
And this, with her baleful singing,
Is the Lorelei's gruesome work.


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