Ne čitajte Poeziju / Do not read Poetry

 

Ne čitajte poeziju.
Poezija boli, prodire u unutrašnje biće i tu zauvek ostaje.
Ili, najbolje – ne čitajte ikakve knjige.
U njima je znanje svih svetova – a ko da živi sa takvim teretom?
Odbijte pesme čim počnete da ih osećate.
Pesme su okrutne i između redova sadrže svu tugu sveta.
Postoji razlog što su tirani spaljivali knjige
I što su dobre knjige danas retki predmeti iz prošlosti.
Ni slučajno ne dozvolite svojoj duši da se oplemeni muzikom reči,
Jer te su melodije previše snažne za vaše poimanje harmonije.
To su anđeoski horovi i mračne simfonije demona,
One remete utabane puteve vašeg čula sluha.
Šta su uopšte pesnici?
Pesnici su – sa zadovoljstvom kažem – kurve,
Oni se svima daju bezuslovno.
Oni se nude kao uličarke, čitali ih, ne čitali, oni će čekati na ćošku.
U poeziji je blaženstvo raja, ali i večna vatra pakla –
A ko u današnje vreme još sme da rizikuje?
Pred njom su jednaki vernici i nevernici, žene i muškarci,
Ona je napad i odbrana.
U njoj nema licemerja, stihovi ne umeju da glume.
Ko veruje da je pesma manifest ličnosti autora –
Taj je prokleti voajer.
Pesme su opijati prve klase onome koji u njima uživa,
Jednim ispravnim čitanjem njegova je svest već ozbiljno pomućena.
(Nije ni proza ništa bolja, ali poezija je više ljudi ubila.)
Nikada ne dozvolite sebi da zavolite pesnika.
Onaj koji nudi pesme ljudima – nesrećan je,
Takvih ljudi se čuvajte, oni u vašim očima vide sve.
Dok piše, pasje se nada se da će neko prihvatiti njegov finalni proizvod,
Pesnici su lutalice u senkama grada i širinama prirode.
Nemojte da ih u ijednom trenutku ozbiljno shvatite,
Oni nisu iz našeg vremena, ili su iz prošlosti ili budućnosti,
Sadašnjost ne poimaju. Desi li se da shvate sadašnjost,
Tek tada nastaje pravi vrtlog u koji će vas začas odvući.
Čuvajte se ljudi koji ni od čega vide odraz svega,
Koji od obične šare na tepihu vide ornament iz antičke istorije,
Koji se pomalo drugačije izražavaju – te su izraze naučili u knjigama,
Tim Pandorinim kutijama kojih se treba čuvati.
U pesmama nema perspektive, nema budućnosti niti ispravnog života;
Pesnicima je grb Ljubav, njihova zastava je Lepota;
U duši im je pustinja i kišna šuma;
Nose bolest zavisnosti od pisanja i ozdravljenje u stihovima.

Ko se jednom pronađe u strofi pesnika, neka više ništa ne čita –
To je znak da taj redosled slova razume.
To je znak da ga je tvorac tih reči koje su pogodile srce
Odvukao u dubine nepoznatog, previše zahtevnog života.
Jer, od pesmotvoraca se zahteva romansa i strah,
Da flertuju sa Inspiracijom jer se plaše njenog odlaska;
Od njih se zahteva neumorno opserviranje milion svetova,
Dok ih stvaran svet čeka opominjući ih svakim sekundom.
Njihove su noge čvrsto na zemlji, ali glava je u maglama svemira,
Od njih se zahteva kontradikcija i kontrola nijansiranog nemira.
Gube se u svom čudnom svetu koji robuje višoj vrednosti,
Ne umeju da razgovaraju o trivijalnim stvarima.
Loše su društvo, strastveni su u svojim stavovima,
Koga jednom zavole – taj je voljen zauvek.
Kao što rekoh, ne dozvolite sebi da ih čujete
A kamoli učestvujte u njihovim psihološkim poigravanjima,
Stihovi zbunjuju vaše duše, paralizuju vaš razum,
Kod njih nema crnog i belog, sve je u svim bojama,
Neodlučnosti skloni su – sem kada sednu da pišu.
Nije li dovoljno znati da svoje pesme nekad uništavaju?
Samouništenje im je svima srednje ime,
Dovoljno su ludi da o tome pišu i da se ponose time.
Vole miris pitome knjige i nepoznate divlje predele,
Sanjaju kada su budni. Ko može trpeti takve ljude?
Zato – ne čitajte pesme, jer to ih najviše boli,
Boli ih što ljudi ne vide sve te poetske lepote.
Deo su svega, ničega deo nisu, njihova vodilja je Univerzum;
U pesmama je Istina – a ko da živi sa takvim teretom?
U ovakvom svetu život se više otežavati ne sme.
I na kraju – pesnici su sumnjiva ljubav, a njihova deca su njihove pesme.

Do not read poetry.
Poetry hurts, penetrates into the inner self and remains there forever.
Better yet, do not read any kind of books.
Therein lies the knowledge of all worlds – and who would ever bear this burden?
Reject poems the moment you start feeling them.
Poems are cruel and contain all of sorrow of the world between the lines.
There is a reason why tyrants burnt books
And why today good books are but rare relics of the past.
Under no circumstances should you let your soul be enlightened with the music of words
For these melodies are far too loud for your comprehension of harmony.
These are evangelic choirs and dark symphonies of demons,
They disturb the well-trodden roads of your sense of hearing.
What are poets exactly?
Poets are – I claim contently – whores,
They give themselves unconditionally to everyone.
They offer themselves like street hookers, whether you read them or not, they will wait at the corner.
In poetry lies the blissfulness of Heaven, as do the sempiternal fires of Hell –
And is there anyone willing to take the risk nowadays?
All stand equal before it, both people of faith and those who turned their backs on it, both women and men,
It is both an attack and a defense.
It does not hold any hypocrisy, verses cannot pretend.
Those who believe that a poem is the author’s person’s manifest –
They are nothing but goddamned peeping Toms.
Poems are first-class opium to those who truly enjoy in them,
Their mind is seriously influenced by a single proper usage of it.
(Prose does not fall behind, but poetry did leave more casualties.)
Never let yourself fall in love with a poet.
The one who offers poems to people is – unhappy,
Beware of that kind of people; they see everything in your eyes.
As they write, they fervently, almost desperately hope someone will accept their final product,
Poets are stray dogs in the shadows of the city and in the wideness of nature.
Do not take them seriously, not for a moment,
They are not from our time; they either come from the past or from the future,
The present – they do not comprehend. Should they learn how to,
A maelstrom will come to exist and they will drag you into it in the blink of an eye.

Beware of the people who see the reflection of everything in Nothingness,
Who see an ancient history ornament in a carpet patchwork,
Who talk a tad differently – they learned these phrases from books,
Those Pandora’s boxes you need to keep away from.
One cannot find perspective in poems, there is no future there, no right way of living;
Poets’ coat of arms is Love, their flag – Beauty;
In their souls hide deserts and rain forests;
They are the carriers of the Writing Addiction; the cure is in the verses.

If you once find yourself in a poet’s verse, read nothing more –
It means you understand that order of letters.
It means the author of the words that struck the cord
Dragged you to the depths of the life that is unknown and too demanding.
For enchantment and dread are required of wordsmiths,
They are compelled to linger with Inspiration owing to their fear of her abandon;
They are destined to tirelessly observe a million worlds,
As reality waits for them, warning them every second.
They stand firm on the ground, but their head is in the fog of the universe.
Contradiction and control over shading unrest is expected in their every verse.
They get lost in their eerie world that is enslaved by a greater cause,
They cannot talk trivially.
They are bad company of passionate points of view,
One loved by a poet is loved forevermore.
As I already said, do not let yourself hear them
Let alone participate in their psychological treacheries,
Verses confuse your souls, paralyze your reason,
Nothing is black and white, everything is every color,
They are prone to hesitancy – except when they sit down to write.
Isn’t it enough to know they sometimes destroy their own work?
Self-destruction is a middle name to each one of them,
And they are deranged enough to write about it and take pride in it.
They love the smell of a tame book and obscure wild regions,
They dream when they’re awake. Who can stand that kind of people?
So – do not read poems, for this hurts them most,
It pains them that people cannot see all those poetic artistries.
They are a part of everything, they do not belong to anything, and their leader is the Universe.
Poems hold Truth – and who could possibly bear such burden?
In a world such as this, life must not be made any more unbearable.

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