10. 12. 2009

reklama na lásku

reklama na lásku
z maličkých oblázků
vyráží všem dech
jako pád na schodech

inzerát ve sněhu
probouzí mou něhu
taju jako led
obejmi mě, hned…!

20. 11. 2009

střípky ze skript #2

Robert Herrick – To the Virgins, to make much of Time

This poem is called 'To the Virgins, to make much of Time', but according to Google search the poem is better known for its first line. It was written by English poet Robert Herrick in 17th century. It is a good example of carpe diem genre (and more over, it is presented in my favourite movie with Robin Williams, Dead Poets Society). And what is most interesting: Herrick wrote over 2,500 poems, I am sure that a plenty of them are about women, lovemaking and a magic of female body, but he had never been married and none of his poems leads to any beloved woman. So he appears to be another stranger amongst my favourite poets. Hm.

But let's enjoy and read aloud the poem.

GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,
  Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
  To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,        
  The higher he 's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
  And nearer he 's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
  When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
  Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
  And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
  You may for ever tarry.

18. 11. 2009

like a book

já do police lehnu si
odhrnu z děje závěsy
zavřu se
a stránky slepím
snad se nestanu jen smetím

21. 10. 2009

střípky ze skript #1

Ted Hughes – The Thought Fox

I imagine this midnight moment's forest:
Something else is alive
Besides the clock's loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.

Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:

Cold, delicately as the dark snow,
A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now

Sets neat prints into the snow 
Between trees, and warily a lame 
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come 

Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business

Till, with sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed. 

Edward James Hughes (1933–1998) was an English poet and children's writer. He was married to American poet Sylvia Plath, who committed suicide in 1963.

30. 7. 2009


Vzal mi účes, dal volnost,
znásobil uvolnění.
Dělá to zas, žádná drzost,
nic mezi námi není...