bananžuvėms gaudyti

ratas apsisuko

none shall sleep

Girios senos kaip vandenys. Samanos.
Klaidžios pasakos kurčio pušyno.
Miško dvasios, kur kalba nesąmones
Ir kurios savo vardo nežino.

Jos užgimę audroj vakarykštėje,
Išsivertę iš degančio kelmo.
Jas griaustiniai maurodami krikštijo,
Joms durnaropės byra iš delno.

Apsisiautusios rūkstančia tunika,
Kaukia jos per miškų karaliją
Ir išgąsdina vaiką ir kunigą,
Kurie velnio ir angelo bijo.

Jos paukščiuką nuo epušės nuspiria,
Nugramzdina į vandenį - nuogą,
Pamaitina gyvatę ir musmirę,
Prinokina nuodingąją uogą.

Jos nutūpusios užburia ąžuolus
(Iš tų medžių bus pjaunamas karstas)
Ir murmėdamos maišos kaip mašalas,
Ir į dūmus pavirsta jų barzdos.

Girios senos kaip vandenys. Samanos.
Klaidžios pasakos kurčio pušyno.
Miško dvasios, kur kalba nesąmones
Ir kurios tikro Dievo nežino.

H. Radauskas

the streets are fields that never die

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

– Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.



Elizabeth Bishop

We see her hand in her lap,
smoothing the apple-green

or the apple-russet silk;
we see her hand at her throat,

fingering a talisman
brought by a crusader from Jerusalem;

we see her hand unknot a Syrian veil
or lay down a Venetian shawl

on a polished table that reflects,
half a miniature broken column;

we see her stare past a mirror
through an open window,

where boat follows slow boat on the lagoon;
there are white flowers on the water.


H. D.

Because you’re the one who’s riding around on a leopard
You’re the one who’s throwing dead birds in the air
(And they will stay dead there)
You’re the one whose wild hide will weather in the weathering days
To a leather made soft
So princes can lay down their princely white heads of hair

So say goodbye to your feral days
Your highness is holding your chains


Sunset Rubdown

What's that amazing
new lemon-yellow flower?
Oh yes, a football.


Wendy Cope

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