Îţi moare cîinele (de RAYMOND CARVER)


călcat de un camion.
îl găseşti la marginea drumului
şi-l îngropi.
apoi te simţi rău.
te simţi rău pentru pierdere,
dar te simţi rău şi pentru fiica ta,
era şi căţeluşul ei,
şi-l iubea atît de mult.
îi cînta-nainte de culcare
şi dormea cu el în pat.
scrii un poem
şi-ţi spui că-i un poem pentru ea,
despre cîinele lovit de camion
şi cum ai avut grijă de el după,
cum l-ai dus în pădure
şi l-ai îngropat bine, bine,
şi poemu-ţi iese atît de ok
încît aproape eşti bucuros
că pe micul animal
l-a trîntit camionul.
apoi te-aşezi şi scrii
un poem despre cum e să scrii
un poem despre moartea acelui cîine,
şi-n timp ce scrii
auzi o femeie urlîndu-ţi numele,
numele mic, amîndouă silabele,
şi-ţi stă inima-n loc.
după un minut, te reapuci de scris.
femeia urlă din nou.
te-ntrebi cît o să mai ţină.

Boris Vian


I wouldn't want to die

Before having known
The black mexican dogs
Who sleep without dreaming
The butt-naked monkeys
Gobbling up tropics
The silver spiders in
Webs riddled with bubbles
I wouldn't want to die
Not knowing if the moon
Behind its fake nickel look
Has a sharper side
If the sun is cold
If the four seasons
Are really only four
Not having tried
To wear a dress
On the boulevards
Not having peeped
Through a sewer peephole
Not having put my dick
Inside weirdo corners
I wouldn't want to end
Without experiencing leprosy
Or the seven diseases
One catches over there
Neither the good nor the bad
Would cause me some sorrow
If if if I knew that
I would get it firsthand
And there iz also
Everything I know
Everything I like
That I know that I like
The green bottom of the sea
Where the seaweeds waltz
On the rippled sand
The burnt grass in June
The crackling earth
The smell of conifers
And the kisses of the one
She's this and she's that
The belle here she comes
My bearcub, Ursula
I wouldn't want to die
Before having used up
Her mouth with my mouth
Her body with my hands
The rest with my eyes
I say no more one should
Remain polite
I wouldn't want to fade
Without someone inventing
Eternal roses
The two hour day
The sea at the mountain
The mountain at the sea
The end of pain
Newspapers in color
All children happy
And so many other tricks
That sleep inside the brains
Of genius engineers
Of jovial gardeners
Of concerned socialists
Of urban urbanists
And of thoughtful thinkers
So many things to see
To see and to hear
So much time to wait
Searching in the dark
And me I see the end
It swarms and it comes closer
With its ugly face
And it opens its arms to me
Like a cripplety frog
I wouldn't want to die
No sir no madam
Before having tested
The taste which torments me
The taste which is the strongest
I wouldn't want to die
Before having tasted
The flavour of death...

se dedica...

so you want to be a writer?

by Charles Bukowski



if it doesn't come bursting out of you

in spite of everything,

don't do it.

unless it comes unasked out of your

heart and your mind and your mouth

and your gut,

don't do it.

if you have to sit for hours

staring at your computer screen

or hunched over your

typewriter

searching for words,

don't do it.

if you're doing it for money or

fame,

don't do it.

if you're doing it because you want

women in your bed,

don't do it.

if you have to sit there and

rewrite it again and again,

don't do it.

if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,

don't do it.

if you're trying to write like somebody

else,

forget about it.





if you have to wait for it to roar out of

you,

then wait patiently.

if it never does roar out of you,

do something else.



if you first have to read it to your wife

or your girlfriend or your boyfriend

or your parents or to anybody at all,

you're not ready.



don't be like so many writers,

don't be like so many thousands of

people who call themselves writers,

don't be dull and boring and

pretentious, don't be consumed with self-

love.

the libraries of the world have

yawned themselves to

sleep

over your kind.

don't add to that.

don't do it.

unless it comes out of

your soul like a rocket,

unless being still would

drive you to madness or

suicide or murder,

don't do it.

unless the sun inside you is

burning your gut,

don't do it.



when it is truly time,

and if you have been chosen,

it will do it by

itself and it will keep on doing it

until you die or it dies in you.



there is no other way.



and there never was.

"...Înseamnă că există în mine o lume total diferită de orice altă lume pe care o cunosc. Nu cred că e proprietatea mea exclusivă - doar unghiul sub care o văd eu e exclusiv, ba chiar unic. Dacă vorbesc în limbajul viziunii mele unice, nimeni nu mă înţelege; cel mai colosal edificiu poate fi înălţat, rămânând totuşi invizibil. Mă obsedează acest gând. La ce-ar folosi să clădeşti un templu invizibil?"

din Henry Miller - Sexus