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<	kolovoz, 2009					>
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Ako netko zna ili misli da zna...

• Koji je smisao života?
  

Bit

• Početak je bio pravi. U našem sjajnom vremenu je potrebna posebnost. Oduševljenje je ovdje. Treba nam hrabrosti. Misao postoji, a teško je zamisliva. Želimo uživati, a komunikacija je teška. Čast je apstraktna. Služi nam da preživimo težnju ka savršenstvu. Čini nas sretnima. U umjetnosti je sve dozvoljeno. NajVeće Kazalište. Tražimo tišinu bez obzira na bol otuđenosti. Očekuje se duhovitost, za koju kažu da je drskost koja je stekla obrazovanje. Povjerenje i iskrenost su ono što je najbolje kažem. Želim znati da zaslužujemo bliskost. Treba mi snaga da nastavim. A nastavit ću jednom.
  
  Jednom..
  
  jedan dva tri četiri pet šest sedam osam devet deset

• The Mental Traveller
  
  I traveld thro' a Land of Men
  A Land of Men & Women too
  And heard & saw such dreadful things
  As cold Earth wanderers never knew
  
  For there the Babe is born in joy
  That was begotten in dire woe
  Just as we Reap in joy the fruit
  Which we in bitter tears did sow
  
  And if the Babe is born a Boy
  He's given to a Woman Old
  Who nails him down upon a rock,
  Catches his Shrieks in Cups of gold.
  
  She binds iron thorns around his head,
  She pierces both his hands & feet,
  She cuts his heart out at his side
  To make it feel both cold & heat.
  
  Her fingers number every Nerve
  Just as a Miser counts his gold;
  She lives upon his shrieks & cries
  And She grows young as he grows old
  
  Till he becomes a bleeding youth
  And she becomes a Virgin bright;
  Then he rends up his Manacles
  And binds her down for his delight.
  
  He plants himself in all her Nerves
  Just as a Husbandman his mould
  And She becomes his dwelling place
  And Garden fruitful Seventy fold.
  
  An aged Shadow soon he fades
  Wandring round an Earthly Cot
  Full filled all with gems & gold
  Which he by industry had got
  
  And these are the gems of the Human Soul,
  The rubies & pearls of a lovesick eye
  The countless gold of the akeing heart,
  The martyrs groan & the lovers sigh.
  
  They are his meat, they are his drink;
  He feeds the Beggar & the Poor
  And the way faring Traveller,
  For ever open is his door.
  
  His grief is their eternal joy;
  They make the roofs & walls to ring
  Till from the fire on the hearth
  A little Female Babe does spring
  
  And she is all of solid fire
  And gems & gold that none his hand
  Dares stretch to touch her Baby form
  Or wrap her in his swaddling-band
  
  But She comes to the Man she loves
  If young or old or rich or poor;
  They soon drive out the aged Host
  A Begger at anothers door.
  
  He wanders weeping far away
  Untill some other take him in
  Oft blind & age-bent sore distrest
  Untill he can a Maiden win
  
  And to allay his freezing Age
  The Poor Man takes her in his arms;
  The Cottage fades before his Sight,
  The Garden & its lovely Charms.
  
  The Guests are scatterd thro' the land
  For the Eye altering alters all;
  The Senses roll themselves in fear
  And the flat Earth becomes a Ball;
  
  The Stars, Sun, Moon all shrink away
  A desart vast without a bound
  And nothing left to eat or drink
  And a dark desart all around.
  
  The honey of her Infant lips,
  The bread & wine of her sweet smile,
  The wild game of her roving Eye
  Does him to Infancy beguile
  
  For as he eats & drinks he grows
  Younger & younger every day
  And on the desart wild they both
  Wander in terror & dismay.
  
  Like the wild Stag she flees away,
  Her fear plants many a thicket wild
  While he pursues her night & day
  By various arts of Love beguild,
  
  By various arts of Love & Hate
  Till the wide desart planted oer
  With Labyrinths of wayward Love
  Where roams the Lion, Wolf & Boar
  
  Till he becomes a wayward Babe
  And she a weeping Woman Old.
  Then many a Lover wanders here;
  The Sun & Stars are nearer rolld.
  
  The trees bring forth sweet Extacy
  To all who in the desart roam
  Till many a City there is Built
  And many a pleasant Shepherds home
  
  But when they find the frowning Babe
  Terror strikes thro the region wide,
  They cry ‘the Babe the Babe is Born’
  And flee away on Every side
  
  For who dare touch the frowning form
  His arm is witherd to its root;
  Lions Boars Wolves all howling flee
  And every Tree does shed its fruit
  
  And none can touch that frowning form
  Except it be a Woman Old;
  She nails him down upon the Rock
  And all is done as I have told.
  
  William Blake
  
  
  
  Duhovni Putnik
  
  Putovah ja kroz Zemlju Ljudi,
  Kroz Zemlju Ljudi i Žena k tom,
  Strahote takve čuh i vidjeh
  Ko nitko prije na putu svom.
  
  S veseljem tu se Dijete rađa
  Što s bolom začeto bje prije,
  Kao što Žanjemo s veseljem
  Ono što se sa suzom sije.
  
  Ako je Čedo Dječak dadu
  Starci tad ga, koja hvata,
  Prikovavši za stijenu njega,
  Krikove mu u vrč od zlata.
  
  Željeznim trnjem glavu mu paše,
  Ruci mu, nozi nanosi zlijed,
  Srce mu vadi iz grudi zato
  Da spozna što je žar i led.
  
  Prstima sve mu Žile broji,
  Kao što Škrtac s blagom radi;
  Plač i cvil njegov njoj je hrana,
  I dok on stari ta se mladi.
  
  Sve dok ne posta Djeva sjajna,
  A on pun snage mladić vitak;
  Odbaci tad on svoje lance
  I sveza je za svoj užitak.
  
  Usadi joj se u sve žile,
  Baš kao ratar tlu svom odan;
  Boravište mu posta Ona,
  Vrt sedamdeset puta plodan.
  
  Ko Stara Sjena blijedjet poče,
  Lutajući po Svijetu cijelom,
  Prepun dragulja, prepun zlata,
  Što zadobi ih svojim djelom.
  
  To su dragulji Ljudske Duše,
  Rubini, biser čežnjiva oka,
  Bolnoga srca zlato, uzdah
  Ljubavnika i bol duboka.
  
  Oni mu bjehu jelo i piće;
  Prosjak, Siromah tim se poji,
  Za Putnika mu namjernika
  Dver otvorena uvijek stoji.
  
  Njegova bol je vječna im radost,
  Od njih mu krov i svaki zid zvoni,
  Sve dok na ognjištu iz vatre
  Djetešce Žensko ne izroni.
  
  Ona je sva od čvrste vatre,
  Dragulja, zlata, nema tu
  Ruke što je dotaknut smije
  Il' povojem omotat' nju.
  
  Al' ona priđe tom kog voli,
  Nek ubog, bogat, star je il' mlad;
  Ko Prosjaka na druga vrata
  Izgnaše starog Gazdu tad,
  
  On ode plačuć' u daljinu,
  Dok ne primi ga tko na cesti;
  Dok pogrbljen, slijep, ojađen,
  Ne mogne mladu Djevu sresti.
  
  I da olakša Starost hladnu,
  Zagrli tada on je star;
  Nestade Kuća mu iz vida,
  Vrt i sav njegov ljupki Čar.
  
  Raspršiše se Gosti svuda,
  Svaka stvar novom Oku bje nova;
  Smotaše se od straha čula
  I Kugla posta Zemlja ova;
  
  Iščeze Sunce, Zvijezde, Mjesec,
  Sve beskrajna je pustoš sama,
  Ni jela niti pića nema,
  Sve pustinja je svud i tama.
  
  Usana njenih Dječjih med,
  Njen smijeh s kog vino i kruh jede,
  Pomamni nemir njena oka
  U Djetinjstvo ga tad zavede;
  
  Jer dok on jede to i pije,
  Svakog dana mlađi biva,
  I oboje kroz pustoš idu,
  Duša im stah i očaj skriva.
  
  Ko divlja Srna juri ona,
  Njezin strah sadi grmlje sve veće;
  Danju i noću on je slijedi
  I ljubavne joj zamke meće;
  
  Od Ljubavi i Mržnje zamke
  Te prekriše kraj pusti sav
  Ljubavni gusti Labirinti
  Gdje luta Vepar, Vuk i Lav;
  
  Svojeglavo on posta Dijete,
  A ona Starica što plače;
  Stiže tu mnogo Zaljubljenih,
  Sunce i Zvijezde sjaju jače,
  
  Pružaju stabla slatki zanos
  Svima što u tu pustoš stižu,
  Gradovi mnogi tu i mnoge
  Kolibe pastirske se dižu.
  
  Al' kad su našli mrko Čedo,
  Užas se tuda širit' stane;
  Vikahu: "Dijete, Dijete se rodi!"
  I pobjegoše na sve strane.
  
  Jer tom što dirne lik taj mrki
  U ramenu se ruka suši;
  Ričući bježe Lav, Vuk i Vepar,
  Sa svakog Stabla plod se ruši.
  
  Ne smije nitko lik taj mrki
  Dotaknut, ako to Starica nije;
  Prikova ona za Stijenu njega
  I sve je ko što rekoh prije.
  
  William Blake
  
  
  Flower in the crannied wall,
  I pluck you out of the crannies; -
  Hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
  Little flower - but if I could understand
  What you are, root and all, and all in all,
  I should know what God and man is.
  
  Tennyson
  
  Cvijete u raspucalom zidu,
  Ubrah te iz pukotina; -
  Držim te tu, sveg sa korijenom, u svojoj ruci,
  Maleni cvijete - no da mogu razumjeti
  Što si, sav sa korijenom i sav u svemu,
  Znao bih što je Bog i što je čovjek.
  
  
  I ja sanjam da sam tu
  sputan u tom kutu bijednom
  a snio sam da sam jednom
  uživao sreću svu
  Što je život? Mahnitanje.
  Što je život? Puste sanje
  prazna sjena što nas ovi
  O, malen je dar nam dan,
  jer sav život - to je san
  a san su i sami snovi.
  
  Pedro Calderon de la Barca
  
  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cB9_9_TpdPo