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La mulți ani, Vali!

Pana si Google ma serbeaza. Foarte amuzant, pe cuvant.

Cine ar fi crezut?! Eu sigur nu. Omul se mira tare cand atinge o varsta inaintata si tinde sa se uite in urma la ce a lasat. Nu ma plang ca imbatranesc, deloc; desi inaintarea in varsta nu inseamna neaparat maturitate, eu pot sa spun ca sunt mai matura decat la 34. Inca nu stiu daca am depasit obstacolele pe care le-am intampinat pana acum, dar ca sunt ceva mai responsabila; am invatat sa fiu eu ceva mai bine decat inainte, ca pentru a ma simti bine trebuie sa fiu bine. Imi lipseste ceva, acelasi lucru care imi lipsea de obicei, dar lipsa e ceva mai adanca, nevoia nu mai e ceva generic ci are un nume si o forma. Si am mai iinvatat sa accept cu adevarat omul de langa mine sau de oriunde in deplinatatea lui fara sa il judec cu adevarat… Se stie ca nu are importanta cum arata, ci felul lui, comportamentul si atitudinea, ca sunt in stare sa ii dau sanse la infinit atata timp cat stiu ca imi permit sau pana ma voi plictisi de el.

Nu e rau sa faci bilanturi, avem obiceiul asta din timp in timp pentru a stii unde ne situam fata de o alta perioada de timp. Cert e ca nu mai sunt atat de pretentioasa si nu mai cer atatea lucruri de la mine insami, ca sunt ceva mai cu picioarele pe pamant decat oricand, ca imi stiu locul pe care mi l-am castigat cu greu si ca inca plutesc deasupra unui rau oarecum involburat. Depinde de avantul pe care il voi lua ca sa stiu daca voi cadea in apa sau pe mal. Inca mai trebuie sa astept si sa muncesc pentru avantul asta.

Si da, plang, imi lipseste. Enorm. Obsedata de mine. 🙂

Si asta sa fie pentru noi:

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De ziua Irlandei cu poezie

James Joyce quote. Your battles inspired me. Image copyright Ireland Calling

Red Hanrahan’s Song about Ireland

by W. B. Yeats

He old brown thorn-trees break in two high over Cummen Strand,
Under a bitter black wind that blows from the left hand;
Our courage breaks like an old tree in a black wind and dies,
But we have hidden in our hearts the flame out of the eyes
Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.

The wind has bundled up the clouds high over Knocknarea,
And thrown the thunder on the stones for all that Maeve can say.
Angers that are like noisy clouds have set our hearts abeat;
But we have all bent low and low and kissed the quiet feet
Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.

The yellow pool has overflowed high up on Clooth-na-Bare,
For the wet winds are blowing out of the clinging air;
Like heavy flooded waters our bodies and our blood;
But purer than a tall candle before the Holy Rood
Is Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.

 

I See His Blood upon the Rose

by Joseph Mary Plunkett

I see his blood upon the rose
And in the stars the glory of his eyes,
His body gleams amid eternal snows,
His tears fall from the skies.

I see his face in every flower;
The thunder and the singing of the birds
Are but his voice—and carven by his power
Rocks are his written words.

All pathways by his feet are worn,
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,
His cross is every tree.

 

Spraying the Potatoes

by Patrick Kavanagh

The barrels of blue potato-spray
Stood on a headland in July
Beside an orchard wall where roses
Were young girls hanging from the sky.

The flocks of green potato stalks
Were blossom spread for sudden flight,
The Kerr’s Pinks in frivelled blue,
The Arran Banners wearing white.

And over that potato-field
A lazy veil of woven sun,
Dandelions growing on headlands, showing
Their unloved hearts to everyone.

And I was there with a knapsack sprayer
On the barrel’s edge poised. A wasp was floating
Dead on a sunken briar leaf
Over a copper-poisoned ocean.

The axle-roll of a rut-locked cart
Broke the burnt stick of noon in two.
An old man came through a cornfield
Remembering his youth and some Ruth he knew.

He turned my way. ‘God further the work’.
He echoed an ancient farming prayer.
I thanked him. He eyed the potato drills.
He said: ‘You are bound to have good ones there’.

We talked and our talk was a theme of kings,
A theme for strings. He hunkered down
In the shade of the orchard wall. O roses
The old man dies in the young girl’s frown.

And poet lost to potato-fields,
Remembering the lime and copper smell
Of the spraying barrels he is not lost
Or till blossomed stalks cannot weave a spell.

Probleme in dragoste

Langa clasa mea e o grupa de copii ceva mai mari decat a mea si ceva mai numeroasa. Sunt copii cuminti si muncitori. Sunt la varsta la care se indragostesc si la care doresc sa atraga atentia. Roxana e una dintre ei. O fata inalta, cu ochelari, vorbeste putin pe nas, dar e tare simpatica si are un vocabular ceva mai dezvoltat ca al celor mai multi.

Roxana e indragostita de Marian, insa Marian ii da ceva mai putina atentie decat isi doreste. Acum ceva timp ei doi s-au cam ciondanit, asa ca Roxana a fost suparata cateva ore. Cum am obiceiul sa las geamul deschis, si cum catedra se afla langa geam, aud cam tot ce se intampla prin curte, chiar daca sala mea de clasa se afla la etaj. De acolo am auzit urmatorul dialog intre Roxana si alti trei prietene ale ei:

-Ma, o sansa macar nu i-a dat! Una singura macar. Eu nu mai pot, va rog sa ma credeti.

-Da’ ce ti-a facut fato?!

-S-a luat de mine, tu n-ai auzit? Ai fost de fata, n-ai vazut cum s-a luat de mine?

-Ba am vazut, da’ stii, eu nu ma bag.

Sta Roxana si planga putin si cu ochii in lacrimi isi deschide bratele si spune:

-Vreau sa ma impacati! Care ma impaca? Haide, impacati-ma!

Una din fete se ridica si o ia in brate, apoi o bate usurel pe spate. Acelasi lucru il face si ea. O inlatura pe fata din fata ei si se duce la o alta care statea jos si nu prea parea sa vrea sa fie luata in brate, dar accepta cumva sa ii faca pe plac. In tot timpul asta Roxana plangea hohotind de mama focului.

-Vreau sa ma impacati!!!

A doua zi am aflat ca cei doi se impacasera si chiar si-au dat bomboane unul altuia. Chestie de romantism.