čīkstuļa pieraksti

dr. seuss "oh! the places you'll go" (izgriezums)

You will come to a place where the streets are not marked. Some windows are lighted. But mostly they’re darked. A place you could sprain both your elbow and chin! Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in? How much can you lose? How much can you win?

And if you go in, should you turn left or right…or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite? Or go around back and sneak in from behind? Simple it’s not, I’m afraid you will find, for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.

You can get so confused that you’ll start in to race down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space, headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.

The Waiting Place…for people just waiting.

Waiting for a train to go or a bus to come, or a plane to go or the mail to come, or the rain to go or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow or waiting around for a Yes or No or waiting for their hair to grow. Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite or waiting for wind to fly a kite or waiting around for Friday night or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake or a pot to boil, or a Better Break or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants or a wig with curls, or Another Chance. Everyone is just waiting.

Es tevi mīlēšu vakar.
Es tevi mīlēšu šodien
un, ja palikšu pāri,-
rīt.

Tāda dūmaka vakar!
Tāda vasara šodien!
Un, ja nenobruks debess,-
zvaigžņu asara
rīt!

Kas tev par svaru vakar,
par ceļu uz skropstām šodien,
un aijājot ienesu tevi
iekš
rīt.

Ai, saldie miegi vakar!
Ai, spalgā mošanās šodien!
Un zila bezgalība
līdz vienai krītošai zvaigznei
rīt.

Es tevi mīlēšu vakar.
Es tevi mīlēšu šodien
un, ja palikšu pāri, -
rīt.

"First you bite your fingernails. And then you comb your hair
again. And then you wait. And wait.

(They say, you know, that first you lie. And then you steal,
they say. And then, they say, you kill.)

Then the doorbell rings. Then Peg drops in. And Bill. And
Jane. And Doc.
And first you talk, and smoke, and hear the news and have a
drink. Then you walk down the stairs.

And you dine, then, and go to a show after that, perhaps, and
after that a night spot, and after that come home again, and
climb the stairs again, and go to bed.
But first Peg argues, and Doc replies. First you dance the same
dance and you drink the same drink you always drank before.

And the piano builds a roof of notes above the world.
And the trumpet weaves a dome of music through space. And
the drum makes a ceiling over space and time and night.
And then the table-wit. And then the check. Then home again
to bed.

But first, the stairs.
And do you now, baby, as you climb the stairs, do you still
feel as you felt back there?
Do you feel again as you felt this morning? And the night
before? And then the night before that?

(They say, you know, that first you hear voices. And then
you have visions, they say. Then, they say, you kick and
scream and rave.)

Or do you feel: What is one more night in a lifetime of nights?
What is one more death, or friendship, or divorce out of two,
or three? Or four? Or five?
One more face among so many, many faces, one more life
among so many million lives?

But first, baby, as you climb and count the stairs (and they
total the same), did you, sometime or somewhere, have a
different idea?

Is this, baby, what you were born to feel, and do, and be?"

(Kenneth Fearing)

"милый друг, ничего не бойся
это просто такая игра
каждое рождество вместо деда мороза
к самым честным детям приходят доктора
вместо хвои - цветное лекарство
вместо фольги - тревожный сон
милый друг, небесное царство -
единственный подарок, который обещал нам он
и там тебя ждет настоящий дед мороз
те, кто говорят, что его нет, врут
и я приду с твоим мёдом и роем ос
здесь мне без тебя не протянуть и пять минут
милый друг, закрывай глаза
сладкое лекарство, чтобы внутри ничего не билось
на улице салют, над ёлкой горит звезда
а во всем мире как будто бы ничего не изменилось"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vp7uzROAAPo

Electricity
down my arm
through this clay
forming into
spirit shapes
of men
women
and children
I have seen
somewhere before.
-Nora Naranjo-Morse

Seigfried Sassoon - Suicide in the Trenches

I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.