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Edgar Allan Poe - de fefe la: 19/11/2004 00:18:43
(la: Cele mai frumoase poezii)
Scuzati-ma dar mi-am adus aminte ca mai este un scriitor care il ador. Tot American, si tot unul din favoritii mei. Enjoy.

( 1849)
by Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.


Edgar Allan Poe - de fefe la: 19/11/2004 00:36:30
(la: Cele mai frumoase poezii)
Inca una ca sa fie cu sotz.

( 1834 )
by Edgar Allan Poe

Thou wast all that to me, love,
For which my soul did pine-
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
"On! on!"- but o'er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!

For, alas! alas! me
The light of Life is o'er!
"No more- no more- no more-"
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree
Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy grey eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams-
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.


Poe - de Honey in the Sunshine la: 26/10/2005 22:11:05
(la: 100 cele mai bune carti scrise in Engleza)
Da, categoric ar trebui sa fie in lista.

P.S.: Poe vine de la Edgar Allan Poe sau de la Poe, trip-hop band ?:) Nu de alta dar s-ar putea sa avem gusturi muzicale foarte comune ;)
Communication is not just words, communication is architecture
#81724 (raspuns la: #81495) comenteaza . modifica . semnaleaza adminului
Poe - de zaraza sc la: 20/01/2009 10:18:37
(la: ganduri la miez de noapte)
Ieri s-au implinit 200 de ani de la nasterea lui Edgar Allan Poe.

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more."

atunci sa facem completarea de cuvinta... - de sanjuro la: 19/11/2004 10:10:12
(la: Cele mai frumoase poezii)
Edgar Allan Poe

The Raven
[First published in 1845]

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet violet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
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poeziile mele preferate... - de nebunica la: 29/11/2004 14:07:10
(la: Cele mai frumoase poezii)
1. E.E. Cummings - you said Is (XIII)

you said Is
there anything which
is dead or alive more beautiful
than my body,to have in your fingers
(trembling ever so little)?
Looking into
your eyes Nothing,i said,except the
air of spring smelling of never and forever.

....and through the lattice which moved as
if a hand is touched by a
moved as though
fingers touch a girl's
Do you believe in always,the wind
said to the rain
I am too busy with
my flowers to believe,the rain answered

2. E.E. Cummings - i carry your heart with me

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 the 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)

3. Edgar Allan Poe - Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view

4. E.E. Cummings - I Am A Beggar Always

i am a beggar always
who begs in your mind

(slightly smiling, patient, unspeaking
with a sign on his
BLIND)yes i

am this person of whom somehow
you are never wholly rid(and who

does not ask for more than
just enough dreams to
live on)
after all, kid

you might as well
toss him a few thoughts

a little love preferably,
anything which you can't
pass off on other people: for
instance a
plugged promise-

the he will maybe (hearing something
fall into his hat)go wandering
after it with fingers;till having

what was thrown away
taptaptaps out of your brain, hopes, life
to(carefully turning a
corner)never bother you any more

5. e.e. cummings - the boys i mean are not refined

the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night

one hangs a hat upon her tit
one carves a cross on her behind
they do not give a shit for wit
the boys i mean are not refined

they come with girls who bite and buck
who cannot read and cannot write
who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite

the boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss

they speak whatever's on their mind
they do whatever's in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance

Ce spuneti de:
" Do you believe in always,the wind
said to the rain
I am too busy with
my flowers to believe,the rain answered..."?
~ - de Cri Cri la: 13/11/2006 19:04:36
(la: Ingerului plecat)
Simtz pus in litere, fara grija pentru idee. Expunere de tip disectie pe tipar pseudoeminescian. Imagini impuse, nu create, din suflet nearmonizat cu mintea, inca.
Fiindca ma recunosc atat de bine, iti spun si eu tie ce mi-a spus odata un baiat drag mie:
Citeste..."Poezia" lui Benedetto Croce. Si poate "Poezia" Stagiritului ...
Poate ca ar trebui sa citesti Emily Dickinson sau Sylvia Plath sau Odysseas Elytis sau Giacomo Leopardi sau ... Edgar Allan Poe ... sau e.e.cummings ...sau Walt Witman sau Omar Kayam ...

... si fie sa-ti foloseasca acestea mai mult decat mie. :)
Pentru cine-l cunoaste bine, si iadul e tot un fel de "acasa"
maan, - de PROUDFRECKLED la: 16/04/2007 20:34:53 Modificat la: 16/04/2007 20:35:51
(la: Un lapsus )
nu repetarea ma deranjeaza aici,ci continutul.Mie,subliniez,mie nu mi se pare a fi o afirmatie cretina si nici o timpenie fara urma de logica in ea 'zicerea' care sugereaza ca barbatii nu se implica emotional intr-o relatie sexuala.As sugera metoda lui Edgar Allan Poe care dezvelea mormintele la inceputul unei nuvele sa ne ingrozeasca cu numarul mare de morti rasuciti in mormint:).Ipotetic,daca am putea balansa ce-i motiveaza pe barbati la actul stiu zau daca s-ar misca acul in directia celor 'implicati emotional':) aici vei gasi mai amanuntit si cu exemple:
#188124 (raspuns la: #188088) comenteaza . modifica . semnaleaza adminului
*** - de maan la: 16/04/2007 21:24:21
(la: Un lapsus )
nu repetarea ma deranjeaza aici,ci continutul.Mie,subliniez,mie nu mi se pare a fi o afirmatie cretina si nici o timpenie fara urma de logica in ea
asa, si din cauza asta ai insistat sa-ti repet de trei ori acelasi lucru, sugerand ca nu-mi dau seama ce vorbesc?

As sugera metoda lui Edgar Allan Poe care dezvelea mormintele la inceputul unei nuvele sa ne ingrozeasca cu numarul mare de morti rasuciti in mormint:)

in ce ma priveste toate vorbele de duh care inregimenteaza oamenii in 'femeia face', 'barbatul drege' is complet idioate daca n-au ca scop amuzamentu' general.

fraza-n cauza, 'el isi trage pantalonii, ea trage consecintele', sugereaza nu doar ca barbatii nu se implica emotional, ci si ca ele is niste dobitoace ce-abia dupa ce s-au culcat cu endevidu isi dau seama (daca-si da!) de consecintele faptelor abia savarsite si tre' sa traiasca cu necazul.
adica duamna face sex fara sa se gandeasca ca ala si-ar putea trage nadragii si p-aci ti-e drumu'!
barbatu iresponsabil, muierea prosta, prin urmare.:(
nu ca n-ar fi compatibili.
dar astia nu-s cuplul etalon.

asa ca mie, subliniez MIE, mi se pare o afirmatie cretina, exact ca alea care sugereaza ca femeia tre' sa faca mancare si copii iar barbatu tre'sa faca politici.

creca glumesti!

#188141 (raspuns la: #188124) comenteaza . modifica . semnaleaza adminului
Raul - de Cri Cri la: 22/07/2007 20:57:08 Modificat la: 22/07/2007 21:02:29
(la: un vis...)
uite, eu iti dau niste nume, din ce mi-a placut mie din contemporaneitatea romaneasca: Realdo, Alina Livia Lazar, Guinevere, Sancho Panza, Radu Herjeu, Inshade 07, Intruder (vorbind de cafenea), Serban Foarta, Monica Harhas, Dan Sociu, Cristian Rosca, Ion Zimbru, Sorin Anca... sunt oameni care, cred eu, scriu poezie. Si cati or mai fi, necunoscuti mie! Ti-as mai recomanda boldat si subliniat pe cineva inca, daca as sti cine e si ce a publicat.

Nichita Stanescu si Lucian Blaga sunt nume de referinta, Edgar Allan Poe, John Keats, Tristan Tzara, Verlaine, Rabindranath Tagore... si mai sunt, si iarasi sunt, asteapta-l pe picky ca el stie mai bine ca mine (uite ca pasez si eu motanul :)); indreptatit insa, te asigur).

In orice caz, citeste! Ca sa inveti, ca sa intelegi, ca sa te impregnezi, ca sa cresti si ca sa nu plagiezi! :)
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EDGAR Allan Poe-CORBUL - de munteanu rodica la: 25/07/2007 17:29:26
(la: Despre plagiat)
"Dar, în neagra-i sihăstrie, alta nu părea că ştie,
Sufletul şi-l îmbrăcase c-un cuvînt sfîşietor.
Mult rămase, ca o stană.n-a mişcat nici fulg, nici pană,
Pînă-am spus: "S-au dus, în goană, mulţi prieteni, mulţi, ca-n zbor –
Va pleca şi el, ca mîine, cum s-a dus Nădejdea-n zbor".
Spuse Corbul: "Nevermore".

Uluit s-aud că-ncearcă vorbă cugetată parcă,
M-am gîndit: "E-o vorbă numai, de-altele-i neştiutor.
L-a-nvăţat vreun om, pe care Marile Dezastre-amare
L-au purtat fără-ncetare cu-ăst refren chinuitor –
Bocetul Nădejdii-nfrînte i-a ritmat, chinuitor,
Doar cuvîntul: «Nevermore»"'.

:))) - de lafemme la: 10/02/2008 11:26:34
(la: ...)
te fascineaza imoralitatea??? incearca amoralitatea... eu una m-am jucat cu ea destul de frumos si e numai buna de pelarina ...
daca ai 13 ani textul e super... si cand ma gandesc ac pe la varsta ta citeam in draci Edgar Allan Poe
motanel - de Intruder la: 05/05/2008 18:21:00
(la: tomb rider)
va provoc sa descifrati >:)

iti place Edgar Allan Poe?
#308081 (raspuns la: #307996) comenteaza . modifica . semnaleaza adminului
Mai adaug - de Cerulsarat la: 28/04/2009 07:21:57
(la: 20 de carti, de citit intr-o viata...)

Thomas Hardy: Tess of the d'Urbervilles

Edgar Allan Poe : Prabusirea casei Usher

#431133 (raspuns la: #431127) comenteaza . modifica . semnaleaza adminului
tot in traducerea lui Doinas - de munteanu rodica la: 25/01/2010 16:27:20
(la: Cele mai frumoase poezii)
Edgar Allan Poe


Întorcîndu-mă-n odaie, mistuit ca de-o văpaie,
Desluşii acelaşi sunet, de-astă dată mai cu spor.
„Sigur”, zis-am, sigur trece cineva; – sub geamul rece,
Ia, să văd ce se petrece; – am să lămuresc uşor
Taina-aceasta; – să-mi trag firea şi-o voi lămuri uşor;
E doar vîntul călător;

Iute-am dat oblonu-n lături şi, cu negrele-i peneturi,
Un vechi Corb din sfinte vremuri apăru solemn, în zbor;
Fără pic de ezitare, fără nici o înclinare,
Ca un domn sau doamnă care nu cunosc răgaz, nici zor,
S-aşeză pe bustul mîndrei Pallas fără nici un zor,
Chiar de-asupra, sfidător.

Şi, cum pasărea ursuză îmi stîrnea surîs pe buză
Prin severa-i etichetă, gravă, – am şoptit uşor
„Deşi creasta ţi-e golaşă, nu pari o fiinţă laşă, –
Corb spectral purtînd cămaşă de-ntuneric, foşnitor, –
Spune-ţi numele de domn pe ţărmul Nopţii foşnitor!”
Zise Corbul „Nevermore”.

Mult m-am minunat de-această pasăre cu tunsă creastă,
Că vorbea, – deşi răspunsul nu era lămuritor;
Însă nimănui în viaţă nu i se arată-n faţă
Pasăre tronînd semeaţă chiar de-asupra pe uşor, –
Pasăre sau arătare stînd pe-un bust, lîngă uşor,
Cu-acest nume „Nevermore.”

Însă Corbul care-acuma sta pe bust rostise numai
Un cuvînt în care-ntregu-i suflet se stingea de dor.
N-am mai zis nimic, – o vreme n-a mişcat nici el din pene, –
Pînă ce-am şoptit alene „Alţi amici s-au dus în zbor;
Mîine şi el o să plece, ca Speranţa mea, în zbor.”
Dar el zise „Nevermore.”

Tresărind că vocea-i spartă-mi răspundea cu-atîta artă,
„Da”, mi-am zis, „e tot ce ştie, tot bagajul vorbitor
Smuls unui stăpîn prea-jalnic, căruia Dezastrul falnic
I-a schimbat un cînt şăgalnic în refren croncănitor, –
Tînguirile Speranţei în refren croncănitor,
Precum „Never-Nevermore.”

Şi, cum pasărea ursuză îmi stîrnea surîs pe buză,
Am împins grăbit fotolui chiar sub bust, lîngă uşor,
Şi, surpat în el, cu gîndul visul de alt vis legîndu-l,
Mă-ntrebam mereu, scrutîndu-1, ce mesaj prevestitor, –
Slab, din sfinte vremuri, sumbru – ce mesaj prevestitor
Mi-aducea prin „Nevermore.”

Asta frămîntam în minte, iscodind fără cuvinte
Corbul ce-aţintea asupra-mi ochiul fix, sfredelitor.
Asta, şi mai multe, – toate vrînd să ştiu – lăsam pe spate
Capu-n pernele muşcate de-un reflex Strălucitor, –
Perne de mătasă-n care părul ei strălucitor
Nu va mai pluti uşor.

Camera-mi părea ţesută de-o tămîie nevăzută
Arsă de-un Seraf cu paşii ca un clinchet pe covor.
„Vai, sărmane!”, am zis, „Prin cete de heruvi, Cel sfînt îţi dete
Un răgaz – şi suc – să-mbete gîndul tău pentru Lenore;
Bea acest suav nepenthes, bea, – şi uit-o pe Lenore!”
Zise Corbul „Nevermore!”

„Piază rea!” strigai, „Prooroace! – Corb sau diavol, n-are-a face!
Fie că Ispititorul, fie că furtuna-n zbor
Cuteză să te trimită în pustia mea vrăjită, –
Într-o casă bîntuită de Oroare, – te implor!
E vreun balsam în Iudeea? – spune, spune-mi, – te implor!”
Zise Corbul „Nevermore”.

„Piază rea!” , strigai, „Prooroace! – Corb sau diavol, n-are-a face!
Pe boltitul cer, pe Domnul adorat de noi în cor, –
Spune-mi – săruta-voi oare în Edenul sfînt din zare
Fata-flacără pe care îngerii-o numesc Lenore, –
Fata pură, ca o rază, care s-a numit Lenore?”
Zise Corbul „Nevermore!”

„Ultimul cuvînt să-ţi fie!, – corb sau drac! în vijelie
Să te-ntorci, – te-nchidă Noaptea sub plutonicu-i zăvor!
Pene nu lăsa pe cale – martore minciunii tale!
Nu-mi sfărma cu-aripi spectrale sihăstria! – Piei în zbor!
Scoate-ţi crudul plisc din mine, forma spulberă-ţi-o-n zbor!”
Zise Corbul „Nevermore”!

De-atunci Corbul, ca o stană, nu mai flutură din pană,
Stînd pe bustul mîndrei Pallas, – fantomatic, sfidător.
Ochii lui au para trează-a unui demon ce visează,
Baza lămpii-i proiectează umbra neagră pe covor,
Şi-al meu suflet niciodată, smuls din ea, de pe covor,
Nu va mai sui în zbor.

Traducere de Ştefan Augustin Doinaş (Tribuna, nr. 17, 1974, p.12)

? - de Intruder la: 27/09/2010 00:45:14
(la: Despre Critica in general,despre Arta in general 3)
La fel se intampla si-n cultura ,cu arta in general : cu ce drept masive institutii,in America si-n lume, se folosesc de opera si de numele lui Edgar Allan Poe,ca de niste unelte la provenienta carora n-au contribuit , dimpotriva:a trebuit sa treaca un secol pentru ca niste minti luminate sa convinga cum acela ce muri ca un cersetor la margine de drum ...etc.

si cum se folosesc de E. A. Poe??
nu cumva i-au pus numele pe pachetele de biscuiti?
:)) - de Raizen la: 01/12/2010 00:30:40
(la: Mizantropie Acuta - Partea I)
schopenhauer, nietzsche, freud, jung, osho, zecharia sitchin, jeff keller, jan van helsing, sandra brown, platon, socrate, sven hassel, kafka, goethe, eminescu, bacovia, eliade, puskin, edgar allan poe, oscar wilde astia is primii care imi vin in cap si care fara indoiala i-am acoperit in mare parte, am cam terminat-o cu cititu pentru cateva luni in mod sigur
#585143 (raspuns la: #585140) comenteaza . modifica . semnaleaza adminului
Anadaria "America pe cine a dat lumii?" - de RSI la: 27/03/2011 13:07:57 Modificat la: 27/03/2011 13:13:32
(la: God bless us)
Stiu si eu?
Benjamin Franklin
Thomas Jefferson
Abraham Lincoln
E. Hemingway
Theodore Dreiser
John Steinbeck
William Faulkner
Tennessee Wiliams
Sidney Pollock
Edgar Allan Poe
Ezra Pound
Walt Whitman...
Si mi-e lene sa merg mai departe.
Despre oamenii de stiinta si inventatori nu am scris nimic. Idem in domeniul teatrului si cinematografiei.
Daca ti-e lene sa-i studiezi pe toti cei mai-sus numiti foloseste cu incredere Wikipedia si/sau Google.
#604894 (raspuns la: #604773) comenteaza . modifica . semnaleaza adminului
* - de zaraza sc la: 26/09/2008 11:45:36
(la: joculete)
Pentru ca l-a parasit pentru unul cu Mercedes.

De ce carabusul lui Poe e de aur?

#345228 (raspuns la: #345047) comenteaza . modifica . semnaleaza adminului
* - de picky la: 25/07/2006 09:11:13
(la: octombria)
Adrian Fuchs :

Superlativul este sarac si nu indeajuns. Stop. Ramas cu graiul suprimat. Stop. Ramas fara respiratie. Stop. Pericol asfixiere. Stop. Editura solicita autoarei manuscrisul pentru vol. II. Stop. Vol. I epuizat inainte de publicare. Stop. Piata, agora, forumul, solicita editarea unui CD cu poemele in lectura autoarei. Stop.

Alexandra, e bine ... Nichita sau Edgar Allan, te-ar iubi ...

Asta e divinitatea, alaturarea de cuvinte cu transmiterea emotiei. Arta e o zeita. Tu esti preoteasa ei ...

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