i carry your heart – e. e. cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
                                                      i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)


O! the one Life within us and abroad
Which meets all motion and becomes its soul,
A light in sound, a sound-like power in light,
Rhythm in all thought, and joyance every where-
Methinks, it should have been impossible
Not to love all things in a world so fill’d;

Ana Blandiana

Ochiul Inchis

Nu indraznesc sa-nchid o clipa ochii
de teama
sa nu zdrobesc intre pleoape lumea,
sa n-o aud sfarmandu-se cu zgomot
ca o aluna intre dinti.
Cat timp voi mai putea fura din somn?
Cat timp o voi mai tine-n viata?
Privesc cu disperare
si mi-e caineste mila
de universul fara aparare
ce va pieri in ochiul meu inchis.


Dumnezeu al libelulelor, al fluturilor de noapte,
Al ciocarliilor si al bufnitelor,
Dumnezeu al ramelor, al scorpionilor
Si al gandaiclor de bucatarie,
Dumnezeu care i-ai invatat pe fiecare altceva
Si stii dinainte tot ce i se va intampla fiecaruia,
As da orice sa inteleg ce-ai simtit
Cand ai stabilit proportiile
Otravurilor, culorilor, parfumurilor,
Cand ai asezat intr-un cioc cantecul
Si in altul croncanitul,
Si-ntr-n suflet crima si in altul extazul,
As da orice, mai ales, sa stiu
Daca ai avut remuscari
Ca pe unii i-ai facut victime si pe altii calai,
Egal de vinovat fata de toti
Pentru ca pe toti i-ai pus
In fata faptului implinit.
Dumnezeu al vinovatiei de a fi hotarat singur
Raportul intre bine si rau,
Balanta mentinuta cu greu in echilibru
De trupul insangerat
Al fiului tau care nu-ti seamana.

Recviem (11 si 12)

Nu ma lasa
Sa cad in viitor,
Sa ma destram in timpul ce-o sa vina
Ca-n groapa cerului
Un zburator
Inmormantat in zarea lui straina.
Fii pentru mine ancora
In lut
In stare sa ma tina strans cu iarba
In astazi,
Locul devenit trecut,
Fii pentru mine ancora

“Scrie” ai spus.
Si eu am luat creion si hartie
Crezand ca vrei sa-mi dictezi.
“Scrie”, ai repetat
Si-ai tacut ca o icoana.
Iar eu am inceput sa scriu
Tacerea ta.
Tacerea ta
Din care toate curg
Cum curge sangele din rana.

Do not go gentle into that good night – Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Advice to my son – Peter Meinke

The trick is, to live your days
as if each one may be your last
(for they go fast, and young men lose their lives
in strange and unimaginable ways)
but at the same time, plan long range
(for they go slow; if you survive
the shattered windshield and the bursting shell
you will arrive
at our approximation here below
of heaven or hell).
To be specific, between the peony and the rose
plant squash and spinach, turnips and tomatoes;
beauty is nectar
and nectar, in a desert, saves–
but the stomach craves stronger sustaenance
than the honied vine.
Therefore, marry a pretty girl
after seeing her mother;
Show your soul to one man,
work with another;
and always serve bread with your wine.
But son, 
always serve wine

From “Hymn Before Sun Rise” – Coleridge

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,
mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.
Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale!
O struggling with the darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink:
Companion of the morning star at dawn,
Thyself Earth’s rosy star, and of the dawn
Co-herald: wake, O wake and utter praise!
Who sank they sunless pillars deep in Earth?
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?
And you, ye five wild torrence fiercely glad!
Who called you forth from night and utter death,
From dark and icy caverns called you forth,
Down those precipitous, black jagged rocks,
For ever shattered and the same for ever?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,
Your strength, your speed, you fury, and your joy,
Unceasing thunder and eternal form?
And who commanded (and the silence came),
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?
Ye Ice-falls! ye that form the mountain’s brow
Adown enormous ravines slope amain –
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents! Silent cataracts!
Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven
Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun
Clothe you in rainbows? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?
GOD! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer! and let the ice plains echo, GOD!
GOD! ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, GOD!
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!
Ye wild goats sporting around the eagle’s nest!
Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain storm!
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
Ye signs and wonders of the element!
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!
Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,         
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast—
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low         
In adoration, upward from thy base
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,
To rise before me—Rise, O ever rise,
Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth!         
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,
Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,
Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.

quiet clean girls in gingham dresses – Bukowski

all I’ve ever known are whores, ex-prostitutes,
madwomen. I see men with quiet,
gentle women I see them in the supermarkets,
I see them walking down the streets together,
I see them in their apartments: people at
peace, living together. I know that their
peace is only partial, but there is
peace, often hours and days of peace.

all I’ve ever known are pill freaks, alcoholics,
whores, ex-prostitutes, madwomen.

when one leaves
another arrives
worse than her predecessor.

I see so many men with quiet clean girls in
gingham dresses
girls with faces that are not wolverine or

“don’t ever bring a whore around,” I tell my
few friends, “I’ll fall in love with her.”

“you couldn’t stand a good woman, Bukowski.”

I need a good woman. I need a good woman
more than I need this typewriter, more than
I need my automobile, more than I need
Mozart; I need a good woman so badly that I
can taste her in the air, I can feel her
at my fingertips, I can see sidewalks built
for her feet to walk upon,
I can see pillows for her head,
I can feel my waiting laughter,
I can see her petting a cat,
I can see her sleeping,
I can see her slippers on the floor.

I know that she exists
but where is she upon this earth
as the whores keep finding me?

Necuvinte – Nichita Stanescu

Visez acel laser lingvistic
care să taie realitatea de dinainte,
care să topească şi să străbată
prin aura lucrurilor.
Acel cuvânt îl visez
care a fost la-nceputul lumilor lumii,
plutind prin întuneric şi despărţind
apele de lumină,
născând peşti în ape şi născând
ape şi lumini în lumină,
născând peşti în ape şi născând
ape şi lumini în lumină…
Visez acel laser lingvistic
care să taie realitatea de dinainte,
care să smulgă întruna luminii
partea ei de apă, cu peşti.
Care să smulgă întruna luminii
ce e apă cu peşti în ea şi s-o lase
tot mai pură şi mai singură şi mai pură,
până când se face din nou

O Me! O Life! – Walt Whitman

Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,

Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,

Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)

Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,

Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,

Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,

The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?


That you are here—that life exists and identity,

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

The Clothes of Heaven – W.B. Yeats

Had I the heaven’s embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths 
Of night and light and the half-light;
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Întrebare – Marin Sorescu 

Ce zi e azi?
Dar Luni a fost
Saptamana trecuta.

Marti a fost tot anul trecut
A fost marti ca popa.

Secolul trecut, dupa cate stiu
a cazut intr-o miercuri.

intr-o joi a fost arata
Intr-o joi a fost arsa
Bibilioteca din Alexandria.
Imposibil sa nu fi trecut
nici o zi de atunci.

Vineri? Sambata?
Eu am mai auzit odata
De zilele astea.
Nu-mi umblati cu povesti.

Poate duminica?
Timpul dinaintea genezei
Se numea Duminica.
Imi aduc bine aminte.

Dumnezeule, toate zilele au fost
Nu ne-a mai ramas nici o zi