Aleksandar Aleksandrovič Blok

Aleksandar Blok
(1880-1921 )

Ruski liričar, predstavnik ruskog simbolizma. Odrastao u intelektualnoj sredini, sve do revolucije 1917. živi otuđeno od društvenoga kretanja, ali revolucionarno zbivanje 1905—1917. odjekuje u slutnjama, nagovještajima, muzici i napokon — temama njegovih pjesama. Od prvoga zbornika Pjesme o divnoj dami (Stihi o
prekrasnoj dame, 1898—1904) B. je prvenstveno lirski pjesnik, koji, stvarajući zagonetne osobne simbole, od apstraktnog lika "divne dame" prelazi na gradske
teme i motive u Nehotičnoj radosti (Nečajannaja radost, 1907) i oblikuje lik "neznanke", zagonetne stanovnice gradske periferije. Ujedno u melodioznim stihovima, punim nedorečenosti, slutnji i simbola, razvija svoju metaforičnost, ironiju i groteskni duh, kada je riječ o stvarnosti;mijenja i ritmičke osobine ruskoga stiha. Treći je veliki ciklus njegove lirike posvećen socijalnim temama, a prije svega domovini — Rusiji. Sadržava liriku
u Na Kulikovu polju (Na pole Kulikovom, 1908), nezavršenu poemu Osveta (Vozme^die, 1910—19) i Jambe (1907—14). U tematski, motivski i ritmički raznolikoj poemi Dvanaestorica (Dvanadcat', 7918) oko fabule o jednom ubojstvu B. oblikuje i zločine i patetiku revolucije, njene pijane poskočice i veličanstveni marševski ritam, da bi je blagoslovio simboličkim Kristom koji se pojavljuje pred dvanaestoricom crvenogardista. Iskoristivši tekovine prijašnje ruske lirike (Žukovski, Fet) i prvih ruskih simbolista (v. Brjusov), vezan za "duh njemačke romantike", B. je razvio emocionalnu sadržajnost, lirizam i muzikalnost ruske poezije. Njegova je lirika— poezija raspadanja "staroga
svijeta" i iščekivanja nečega novoga, što će nadoći, a što pjesnik može izraziti samo muzikom stihova. Uz lirske pjesme i poeme napisao je i niz malih "lirskih" drama, koje su tematski u uskoj vezi s njegovom poezijom.

DANAS SI IŠLA POSVE SAMA

 Danas si išla posve sama,
I ja ne vidjeh Tvojih čuda.
Na gorskom Tvome visu, tamo,
Zupčasta šuma bješe svuda.

 I ta šuma krošanja zbitih,
I ti putovi gorski tmasti
Smetahu mi se s neznanim sliti
I plavetnilom tvojim cvasti.

''Uzasne su veceri hladne''

Uzasne su veceri hladne, 

Vetar sto drhti od nespokoja,
I drumom uznemirijuci sum
Nestvarnih koraka bez broja.

Ko secanje na bolest skorasnju
Hladna je svitanja pruga,
Pouzdan znak da smo u vlasti
Neraskidivog nekog kruga.

DVANAESTORICA
... I državnim idu krokom ...
- Tko je tamo? Hajde van!
Crven barjak je visoko
Sprijeda vjetrom razigran ...

Pred njima je - nanos hladni,
- U nanosu tko je - van!
To skitnički tek pas gladni
Za njima šepesa sam...

- Bocnut ću te bajonetom,
Bjež odavde, šugavi!
Stari svijete, kužno pseto,
Bježi - da ne udarim!

... Vuk se gladni dalje vuče,
Ceri zube - rep podaviv -
Pas ozebli - pas bez kuće ...
- Hej, tko ide, daj se javi!

- Tko barjakom tamo maše?
- Gledaj samo, kakva tmina!
- Tko to žurnim trkom kaše,
Krijuć se za uglovima?

- Svejedno je, bit ćeš moj,
Bolje predaj nam se sam!
- Hej, ti druže, bit će zlo,
Izlazi da ne pucam!

Trah-tah-tah! - I samo eho
Po kućama zvoni plah ...
A mećava dugim smijehom
Zavija kroz snježni prah . ..
Trah-tah-tah!
Trah-tah-tah......
I državnim krokom tako
Idu - pas ih slijedi tragom,
Sprijeda, s krvavim barjakom,
S vijavica nedoglediv,
Od taneta nepovrediv,
Nad mećavom hodom nježnim,
I bisernim prahom snježnim,
Na njem vijenac ruža čist -
Pred njima je - Isus Krist.

PJESMA FAINE


Kad u te oko moje sije,
To usko oko, oko zmije,
I kad te Ijubim, mazim,

Ej, pazi, pazi! zmija sva sam!
Gle: samo na čas tvoja ja sam
I preko tebe gazim!

Dosadio si! Možeš poći?
Sa drugim bit ću ove noći,
Ti svoju ženu išti!

Otiđi, nek te tuge riješi,
I nek te Ijubi, nek te tješi,
Otiđi & ; bič moj zviždi!

U vrt nek dođe tko od vas,
Moj uzak crn nek vidi stas!
Izgorjeti će, neka!

Ja proljeće sam sva i plam!
Ne prilazi mi i ti sam,
Kog Ijubim, koga čekam!

Tko sijed je, tko u cvijetu Ijeta,
Tko više zvonkih da moneta,
Uz poziv može ući!

Pod mladom, lijepom - starom, sijedom"
Nad vašom glupom glavom bijednom
Ti, biču moj, fijuči! 

The Russian poet, Aleksandr Blok, died eighty-nine years ago today on 7th August 1921 at the age of forty-one. A visionary and prophet, Blok believed that the poet’s role was to serve as a conduit between this and “other worlds” and thus reveal the purpose and directions of humanity (much as Rimbaud defined this duty in his Letter of the Seer). And for his brave sojourns into “other worlds”, Blok was ably assisted by two unique and distinctive muses.

Blok first came to my attention via his Romantic-influenced poetry, Stikhi o Prekrasnoy Dame (Verses on a Beautiful Lady) – his first published collection of poems. Inspired by the woman who would be his wife, Lyubov Mendeleeva, Blok follows the tradition of poets that began with Dante and Petrarch to depict his beloved as a woman both earthly and divine, a living Sophia, and through whom is revealed a beauty which transcends her and which the poet serves through his art. Yet her beauty brings the poet little peace (indeed, the marriage between Blok and Lyubov would prove to be turbulent and doomed): “Are you evil or good? You are altogether from another world /They say strange things about you / For some you are the Muse and a miracle/ For me you are torment and hell”.

But what might have been a deathblow to another poet – the abandonment of his Muse Incarnate – signified for Blok instead a new beginning. Deeply moved by the events of World War I, the Russian Revolution and ensuing Civil War, he found a new muse in Russia herself. Blok would use his love for his country, its legends and the momentous changes that were occurring to develop the rhythmic style characterized by the symbolic and metaphysical imagery for which he is best remembered.

Unlike the majority of the Russian intelligentsia, Blok supported the 1917 Revolution which he foresaw as a spiritual awakening. It inspired his best-known poem, the twelve-part Dvenadtsat (The Twelve) – but, as would be the case with many idealists, Blok was quickly disillusioned with the Bolsheviks and Soviet bureaucracy. After the Revolution, things started well enough when throughout 1918 he was commissioned for government editorial and theatrical work. By 1919, however, he was arrested for supposed counter-revolutionary activities and nearly executed. From there it was a downward spiral of disappointment exacerbated by his lifelong vice, alcohol. By 1921 he stopped writing poetry. “I’m suffocating, suffocating, suffocating. We’re suffocating, we will all suffocate,” he wrote to a fellow artist and friend.

Aware that he was indeed suffocating, suffocating, suffocating, he made a last plea for life and applied to leave Russia. But Lenin – who was familiar with Blok’s poetry and perhaps feared the Poet’s Truth – refused to grant permission. The loss of faith proved to be the final blow and, physically and mentally unable to continue, Blok died in Petrograd from malnutrition.

Ever the prophetic poet, he penned his own epitaph.

Oh, I madly want to live,
To immortalize the fleeting,
To humanize the impersonal
To realize what was a dream.
Let the life’s heavy dream suffocate me
Let me die in this dream
Perhaps, a happy youth
Will say in the future about me
“Let us forgive his melancholy
Was it his inner essence?
He was all a child of kindness and light
He was all the triumph of freedom.” 
- Aleksandr Blok

Bob Dylan - A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall.&...Eddie Brickell and New Bohemians

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son ?
And where have you been my darling young one ?
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you see, my blue eyed son ?
And what did you see, my darling young one ?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin'
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin'
I saw a white ladder all covered with water
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son ?
And what did you hear, my darling young one ?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin'
I heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world
I heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin'
I heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin'
I heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin'
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, who did you meet my blue-eyed son ?
Who did you meet, my darling young one ?
I met a young child beside a dead pony
I met a white man who walked a black dog
I met a young woman whose body was burning
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow
I met one man who was wounded in love
I met another man who was wounded in hatred
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

And what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son ?
And what'll you do now my darling young one ?
I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin'
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest
Where the people are a many and their hands are all empty
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
Where the executioner's face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number
And I'll tell and think it and speak it and breathe it
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it
Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin'
But I'll know my songs well before I start singin'
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
                        by Bob Dylan

Pieter Bruegel the Elder

Work location

Antwerp (1551-1563), Italy (1553), Brussels (1563-1569)

The peasant wedding

The triumph of Death

Land of cockaigne / Schlaraffenland

Die Elster auf dem Galgen (1568)

The Tower of Babel (now in Vienna)

The fall of Icarus. 1558.

‘Bezoek aan de pachthoeve’. ca. 1568.

The temptations of St. Anthony.

1556.

 The Painter and The Buyer.

ca. 1565.

The Tower of Babel (now in Rotterdam)

Teo Peixinho Dourado

BOTANIC GARDEN of Rio de Janeiro

Code of Serbian Tsar Stefan Dusan 1349th and 1354

Законик Стефана Душана Цара Српског 1349. и 1354. (1898.Год.) - Стојан Новаковић

Kathmandu येँ महानगरपालिका कान्तिपुर काठमांडौ (Kaa-th-maan-dau)

Kathmandu (Nepali: काठमांडौ, pronounced: [kɑːʈʰ.mɑːɳ.ɖuː]; Nepal Bhasa: येँ महानगरपालिका) is the capital and largest metropolitan city of Nepal. The city is the urban core of the Kathmandu Valley in the Himalayas, which also contains two sister cities namely Patan or Lalitpur, 5 kilometres (3.1 mi) to its southeast (an ancient city of fine arts and crafts) and Bhaktapur, 14 kilometres (8.7 mi) to its east (city of devotees). It is also acronymed as 'KTM' and named 'tri-city'.^[4]

The city stands at an elevation of approximately 1,400 metres (4,600 ft) in the bowl-shaped valley in central Nepal surrounded by four major mountains, namely: Shivapuri, Phulchowki, Nagarjun and Chandragiri. It is inhabited by 671,846 (2001) people. The Kathmandu valley with its three districts including Kathmandu District accounts for a population density of only 97 per km² whereas Kathmandu metropolitan city has a density of 13,225 per km². It is by far the largest urban agglomerate in Nepal, accounting for 20% of the urban population in an area of 5,067 hectares (12,520 acres) (50.67 square kilometres (19.56 sq mi)).^[5][6][7][8] y Kathmandu is not only the capital of the Federal Democratic Republic of Nepal but also the headquarters of the Central Region (Madhyamanchal) among the five development regions constituted by the 14 administrative zones of Nepal located at the central part of the country. The Central region has three zones namely, Bagmati, Narayani and Janakpur. Kathmandu is located in the Bagmati Zone.^[9]

Kathmandu, as the gateway to Nepal Tourism, is the nerve center of the country’s economy. With the most advanced infrastructure among urban areas in Nepal, Kathmandu's economy is tourism centric accounting for 3.8% of the GDP in 1995-96 (had declined since then due to political unrest but has picked up again).

The city’s rich history is nearly 2000 years old, as inferred from an inscription in the valley. Its religious affiliations are dominantly Hindu followed byBuddhism. People of other religious beliefs also live in Kathmandu 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE GREEN EYE OF THE LITTLE YELLOW GOD

by 

J. Milton Hayes 

There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,

There's a little marble cross below the town;

There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,

And the Yellow God forever gazes down.

He was known as "Mad Carew" by the subs at Khatmandu,

He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;

But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,

And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,

The fact that she loved him was plain to all.

She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun

To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;

They met next day as he dismissed a squad;

And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do

But the green eye of the little Yellow God.

On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,

And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars:

But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,

Then went out into the night beneath the stars.

He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,

And a gash across his temple dripping red;

He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,

And the Colonel's daughter watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through;

She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod;

He bade her search the pocket saying "That's from Mad Carew,"

And she found the little green eye of the god.

She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do,

Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet;

But she wouldn't take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone

With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,

She thought of him and hurried to his room;

As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air

Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.

His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through;

The place was wet and slipp'ry where she trod;

An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,

'Twas the "Vengeance of the Little Yellow God."

There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,

There's a little marble cross below the town;

There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,

And the Yellow God forever gazes down.