Едгар Алан По

[Thief]

Едгар Алан По (Edgar Allan Poe)

Најпрво Гавранот на англиски и македонски, а потем и кратка биографија:

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.'

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 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!

 

[Thief]

Препевот на македонски:


Гарванот



Еднаш среде полноќ една, покрај стари книги седнат,
дури водев в соба бледна со тајната ука спор,
дури дремлив тонев в скука, зачув некој тропнеж тука,
зачув некој како чука на портата однадвор.
„Некој гостин” – реков, - чука однадвор!”
Тоа сал и ниту збор.

Ах, си спомнам, многу јасно: в декемвриска вечер касна,
жарта в пепелта што згасна го засени мојот взор.
Жедно утрото го пекав; од книгите штуро чекав
спас од болот што ме штрека, бол по еден редок збор,
збор Ленора, свидна мома, тој ангелски убав створ,
Таа вечна неизгор.

А завесата од свила, в пурпур сета што се слила,
грозен шун во себе скрила. На ужас се чиниш створ!
Па срцето дури бие, јас го молам да се свие:
„Некој гост е пти се крие пред портата однадвор –
доцен гост е што се крие пред портата однадвор” –
Тоа сал и ниту збор!

Веднаш срдито се вденав, мигум својот глас го кренав:
„Човек ли сте или жена, простете е мојот збор;
врз клепкиве дремка стежна, а пак вие в ноќва мрежна
тропнавте со усет нежна на вратата однадвор” –
тоа реков, порти ширум отворив и пратив взор –
Надвор мрак и ниту збор!

Длабоко во мракот страшен долго стоев втренчен, вџашен,
сонувајќи сон незнаен ни на еден смртен створ;
Спокој секаде се свлече, мирнотија в ноќта тече,
збор единствен што се рече беше тажен, шепнат збор,
збор, Ленора, што низ ехо се врати одговор.
Тоа сал и ниту збор.

В собата штом дојдов назад, сетив: морници ме лазат,
зачув некој како чука пак со удар тап и спор.
Па си реков: „дај, ќе идам до прозорецот, да видам,
треба сигурен да бидам таен ли е некој створ!-
Да се смирам сал за малку од тропнежот однадвор”-
Вон сал ветер развигор.

Панѕурите штом ги турнав, прекумене нешто јурна,
низ прозорецот се втурна Гарван горд до темен взор.
Ни да климне глава само, ни да запре в таа штама,
но со лик на лорд ил’ дама к’о што дојде однадвор,
врз бистата на Палада, над вратата, овој створ
претна, седна и ни збор!

И со таа птица света, што пред малку тука сета
одважна и строга сета, почнав чуден разговор:
„Бувка немаш да се реси, сепак плашлива ти не си,
грозно, страшно сениште си, Брегот ноќен ти е двор –
речи, какво име носиш в Плутоновиот ти хор?”
Тој сал гракна: „Nevermore!”

Станав плен на почудица, кога таа грда птица
ја чув како зборна в мракот сосем јасен одговор!
Никој смртен жив створ вака, среде глува ноќна мрака,
не чул птица да му грака и да му праќа огнен взор –
птица или друга лишка да му праќа огнен взор
со збор еден: „Nevermore!”

Гарванот, штом седна таму, еден збор тој гракна само
в душа божем тој збор може сам да начне разговор.
Друго појќе нид а каже, ни да пафне пердув влажен,
дур не сронив мрмор тажен: „Осамен сум долго створ.
И ти како мојта Надеж исчезнат ќе бидеш створ!”
Тој сал гракна: „Nevermore!”

Изненаден, мигнум трепнав, од одветот негов сепнат,
„Сомневање нема”, шепнав, „Се` е тоа празен збор”.
Од несреќен стопан сметен, кого пропаст го сплете
и го следи уште, ете, до песните преумор,
тажачките песни, пирпев на Надежта непрегор
од вечното: „Nevermore!”

Но Гарванот грак што срони, макар тажен, в смев ме гони,
па на столот седнав сонлив со втренчен во него взор;
Врз кадифе глава веднам, но ми тежи мисла една,
мисла тажна, мисла бледна: кој е овој зловест створ?
Овој кобен страшен хишник каков ли е судботвор
со своето: „Nevermore!”

В плен на такви мисли седев, птицата со глед ја следев,
без да речам ниту еден, дури ниту еден збор;
В плен на такви мисли вивнат, понабргу потем стивнав
и врз кадифе да здивнам, се отпуштив нем и спор,
врз кадифето кај Она нема веќе к’о жив створ
Пак да седне, „Nevermore!”

Одненадеж, ми се чини, мирис воздухот да прими
божем крилни серафими кадат тамјан беспрекор;
„Страдалнику”, реков тогај, „Ова дар ти е од бога;
по ангели тој ти прати мир и непент којто мати.
Испи го и тогај мора да за заборавиш Ленора!”
грак се слушна: „Nevermore!”

„Пророку!”, му реков право, „птица ли си или ѓавол!
Сеедно е кој те пратил! Сотона ли, друг ли створ!
Полн со очај, смел ил’ злобен, дојден ваму в крајов кобен,
в дом кај што цари ужас гробен, дај ми искерн одговор:
речи, дали гилеада има цер за тој што страда?”
Тој сал гракна: „Nevermore!”

„Пророку!”, му реков право, „птица ли си или ѓавол!
Те колнам во тој што в светот владее над секој створ„
Речи и` на мој’ва душа, која јадови ја гушат,
дали повтор ќе ја гушка Ленора со љубен вор?
Дали пак во далек Еден ќе прегрне свиден створ?”
Тој сал гракна: „Nevermore!”

Нека биде тој збор сега збор разделбен, а не шега,
птицо или враже, бегај в Плутоновиот ти двор!
Не оставај пердув траги, спомени од твојте лаги,
остави ме в мисли драги, престани со твојот збор!
Од срцево извади го клунот свој, тој клун на нор!
Грак се слушна: „Nevermore!”

А Гарванот ни да претне, ниту пак замиг да летне
oд бистата на Палада, туку како кобник створ
над вратата бдее, молчи, со поспани демон-очи,
И врз подот сенка дрочи, без да гракне ниту збор;
и врз таа сенка – темна, душава, знам, веќе нема,
да се крене. „Nevermore!”

 

[Скулгрл]

Гарванот ми е една од најомилените поеми.Секогаш кога ја читам се наежувам

 

[Divider]

Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston, Massachusetts, to parents who were itinerant actors. His father David Poe Jr. died probably in 1810. Elizabeth Hopkins Poe died in 1811, leaving three children. Edgar was taken into the home of a Richmond merchant John Allan. The remaining children were cared for by others. Poe's brother William died young and sister Rosalie become later insane. At the age of five Poe could recite passages of English poetry. Later one of his teachers in Richmond said: "While the other boys wrote mere mechanical verses, Poe wrote genuine poetry; the boy was a born poet."
Poe was brought up partly in England (1815-20), where he attended Manor School at Stoke Newington. Later it become the setting for his story 'William Wilson'. Never legally adopted, Poe took Allan's name for his middle name. Poe attended the University of Virginia (1826-27), but was expelled for not paying his gambling debts. This led to quarrel with Allan, who refused to pay the debts. Allan later disowned him. In 1826 Poe became engaged to Elmira Royster, but her parents broke off the engagement. During his stay at the university, Poe composed some tales, but little is known of his apprentice works. In 1827 Poe joined the U.S. Army as a common soldier under assumed name, Edgar A. Perry. He was sent to Sullivan's Island, South Carolina, which provided settings for 'The Gold Bug' (1843) and 'The Balloon Hoax' (1844). Tamerlane and Other Poems (1827), which Poe published at his own expense, sold poorly. It has become one of the rarest volumes in American literary history. In 1830 Poe entered West Point. He was dishonorably discharged next year, for intentional neglect of his duties - apparently as a result of his own determination to be released.
In 1833 Poe lived in Baltimore with his father's sister Mrs. Maria Clemm. After winning a prize of $50 for the short story 'MS Found in a Bottle,' he started career as a staff member of various magazines, among others the Southern Literary Messenger in Richmond (1835-37), Burton's Gentleman's Magazine in Philadelphia (1839-40), and Graham's Magazine (1842-43). During these years he wrote some of his best-known stories. Southern Literary Messenger he had to leave partly due to his alcoholism.
In 1836 Poe married his 13-year-old cousin Virginia Clemm. She bust a blood vessel in 1842, and remained a virtual invalid until her death from tuberculosis five years later. After the death of his wife, Poe began to lose his struggle with drinking and drugs. He had several romances, including an affair with the poet Sarah Helen Whitman, who said: "His proud reserve, his profound melancholy, his unworldliness - may we not say his unearthliness of nature - made his character one very difficult of comprehension to the casual observer." In 1849 Poe become again engaged to Elmira Royster, who was at that time Mrs. Shelton. To Virginia he addressed the famous poem 'Annabel Lee' (1849) - its subject, Poe's favorite, is the death of a beautiful woman.

...
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-time, 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.
(from 'Annabel Lee', 1849)
​

Poe's first collection, Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque, appeared in 1840. It contained one of his most famous work, 'The Fall of the House of Usher.' In the story the narrator visits the crumbling mansion of his friend, Roderick Usher, and tries to dispel Roderick's gloom. Although his twin sister, Madeline, has been placed in the family vault dead, Roderick is convinced she lives. Madeline arises in trance, and carries her brother to death. The house itself splits asunder and sinks into the tarn. The tale has inspired several film adaptations. Roger Corman's version from 1960, starring Mark Damon, Harry Ellerbe, Myrna Fahey, and Vincent Price, was the first of the director's Poe movies. The Raven (1963) collected old stars of the horror genre, Vincent Price, Peter, Lorre, and Boris Karloff. According to the director, Price and Lorre "drove Boris a little crazy" - the actor was not used to improvised dialogue. Corman filmed the picture in fifteen days, using revamped portions of his previous Poe sets.
In Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym (1838), Poe's longest tale, the secret theme is the terror of whiteness. Poe invented tribes that live near the Antarctic Circle. The strange bestial humans are black, even down to their teeth. They have been exposed to the terrible visitations of men and white storms. These are mixed together, and they slaughter the crew of Pym's vessel. The Argentinean writer Jorge Luis Borges has assumed that Poe chose the color intuitively, or for the same reasons as in Melville explained in the chapter 'The Whiteness of the Whale' in his Moby-Dick. Later the 'lost world' idea was developed by Edgar Rice Burroughs in The Land That Time Forgot (1924) and other works.
During the early 1840s, Poe's best-selling work was curiously The Conchologist's First Book (1839). It was based on Thomas Wyatt's work, which sold poorly because of its high prize. Wyatt was Poe's friend and asked him to abridge the book and put his own name on its title page - the publisher had strongly opposed any idea of producing a cheaper edition. The Conchologist's First Book was a success. Its first edition was sold out in two months and other editions followed.
The dark poem of lost love, 'The Raven,' brought Poe national fame, when it appeared in 1845. "With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be held in reverence: they must not - they cannot at will be excited, with an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of mankind." (from The Raven and Other Poems, preface, 1845) In a lecture in Boston the author said that the two most effective letters in the English language were o and r - this inspired the expression "nevermore" in 'The Raven', and because a parrot is unworthy of the dignity of poetry, a raven could well repeat the word at the end of each stanza. Lenore rhymed with "nevermore." The poems has inspired a number of artists. Perhaps the most renowed are Gustave Dorј's (1832-1883) melancholic illustrations.
Poe suffered from bouts of depression and madness, and he attempted suicide in 1848. In September the following year he disappeared for three days after a drink at a birthday party and on his way to visit his new fiancјe in Richmond. He turned up in delirious condition in Baltimore gutter and died on October 7, 1849.
Poe's work and his theory of "pure poetry" was early recognized especially in France, where he inspired Jules Verne, Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867), Paul Valјry (1871-1945) and Stјphane Mallarmј (1842-1898). "In Edgar Poe," wrote Baudelaire, "there is no tiresome snivelling; but everywhere and at all times an indefatigable enthusiasm in seeking the ideal." In America Emerson called him "the jingle man." Poe's influence is seen in many other modern writers, as in Junichiro Tanizaki's early stories and Kobo Abe's novels, or more clearly in the development of the19th century detective novel. J.L. Borges, R.L. Stevenson, and a vast general readership, have been impressed by the stories which feature Poe's detective Dupin ('The Murders in the Rue Morgue', 1841; 'The Purloined Letter,' 1845) and the morbid metaphysical speculation of 'The Facts in the Case of M. Waldermar' (1845). Thomas M. Disch has argued in his The Dreams Our Stuff Is Made Of (1998) that it was actually Poe who was the originator of the modern science fiction. One of his tales, 'Mellonta Taunta' (1840) describes a future society, an anti-Utopia, in which Poe satirizes his own times. Another tales in this vein are 'The Thousand-and-Second Tale of Sceherazade' and 'A Descent into the Maelstrom'. However, Poe was not concerned with any specific scientific concept but mostly explored different realities, one of the central concerns of science fiction ever since.
In his supernatural fiction Poe usually dealt with paranoia rooted in personal psychology, physical or mental enfeeblement, obsessions, the damnation of death, feverish fantasies, the cosmos as source of horror and inspiration, without bothering himself with such supernatural beings as ghosts, werewolves, vampires, and so on. Some of his short stories are humorous, among them 'The Devil in the Belfry,' 'The Duc de l'Omelette,' 'Bon-Bon' and 'Never Bet the Devil Your Head,' all of which employ the Devil as an ironic figure of fun. - Poe was also one of the most prolific literary journalists in American history, one whose extensive body of reviews and criticism has yet to be collected fully. James Russell Lowell (1819-91) once wrote about Poe: "Three fifths of him genius and two fifths sheer fudge."

 

[Divider]

Lenore

Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll!- a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?- weep now or nevermore!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read- the funeral song be sung!-
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young-
A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

"Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her- that she died!
How shall the ritual, then, be read?- the requiem how be sung
By you- by yours, the evil eye,- by yours, the slanderous tongue
That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"

Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong.
The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy
bride.
For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes
The life still there, upon her hair- the death upon her eyes.

"Avaunt! avaunt! from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven-
From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven-
From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of
Heaven!
Let no bell toll, then,- lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damned Earth!
And I!- to-night my heart is light!- no dirge will I upraise,
But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days!"
​

 

[Divider]

For Annie

Thank Heaven! the crisis-
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last-
And the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length-
But no matter!-I feel
I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead-
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:- ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!

The sickness- the nausea-
The pitiless pain-
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain-
With the fever called "Living"
That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated- the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:-
I have drunk of a water
That quenches all thirst:-

Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground-
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.

And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bed-
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its roses-
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies-
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies-
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie-
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast-
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm-
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead-
And I rest so contentedly,
Now, in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
That you fancy me dead-
That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead.

But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie-
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie-
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
​

 

[Divider]

Annabel Lee

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.
​

 

[Divider]

Seta poezija na velikanot Poe, Edgar A.

 

[Thief]

За разлика од Гавранот, Анабел Ли ја немам на македонски, но затоа имам еден српски превод. Да го пишувам или не е дозволено на странски јазик?!

Една мала забелешка: има многумина кои не знаат англиски ни да „гугнат”, а камоли да читаат поезија... Ако имаме македонски преводи, да се обидеме првенствено нив да ги постираме.
Иако, мене на пример, линкот на Гарфилд ќе ми биде мнооогу драгоцено четиво. Благодарам, Швал... овај, Мачору!

 

[Divider]

Постирај, поезијата не признава граници. Ниедна уметност не признава бариери.

 

[Thief]

ANABEL LI

U carstvu na žalu sinjega mora
pre mnogo leta to bi -
življaše jednom devojka lepa
po imenu Anabel Li; -
i samo joj jedno beše na umu:
to da se volimo mi.

U carstvu na žalu sinjega mora
deca smi bili mi,
al volesmo se više no iko
ja i Anabel Li -
ljubavlju s koje su patili žudno
nebeski anđeli svi.

I zato, u carstvu na morskom žalu,
pradavno ovo se zbi:
dunu silni vetar sa neba,
sledi mi Anabel Li;
i dođoše od mene da je odnesu
njezini rođaci svi,
u grob na morskom je spustiše žalu
da večni sanak sni.

Anđele je zavist morila što su
tek upola srećni ko mi:
da! Zato samo (kao što znaju
u onome carstvu svi)
dunu vetar s neba i sledi
i ubi mi Anabel Li.

Ali mi nadjačasmo ljubavlju one
što stariji behu no mi -
što mudriji behu no mi -
i slabi su anđeli sve vasione
i slabi su svi podvodni duhovi zli
da ikad mi razdvoje dušu od duše
prelepe Anabel Li: -

Jer večite snove, dok mesec sjaj toči,
snivam o Anabel Li;
kad zvezde zaplove, svud viđam ja oči
prelepe Anabel Li;
po svu noć ja tako uz dragu počivam,
uz nevest svoju, uz život svoj snivam,
u grobu na žalu, tu ležimo mi,
a more huči i vri.​

 

[ѕpaceman]

Едгар Алан По, незнам зошто но најпознат е по песната Гавранот (најверојатно затоа што таа се изучува во средно) иако мене некоговите кратки раскази ми се далеку подобри.

На линков подолу може да симнете се (или нешто по избор) од него: http://bau2.uibk.ac.at/sg/poe/Work.html

 

[Thief]

Еве и друг препев:

Едгар Алан По

Анабел Ли

У царству једном пре много лета
- Тамо где море сне своје сни –
Живљаше дева заносном цвета,
Име јој беше Анабел Ли –
Једна јој мисо у мисли бди:
Љубави наше свешћу да зри.

Била је дете, ја дете, давно,
Томо где море сне своје сни,
Ал' вољесмо се надљубавно,
Ла и премила Анабел Ли.
Анђели с неба жуђаху стравно
Да таква љубав у љима ври.

И ето разлог, знате га сви,
И коб очајна, освета глупа:
Подуну ветар с облака зли,
Тамо где море сне своје сни,
Покоси моју Анабел Ли.
Витеза њених поворка ступа;
У гроб је далек од мене скри
Где море жало ромором купа.

Ал' љубав наша би надљубавна,
Та љубав наша тајна је јавна,
Некад се слична не деси, зби –
O, ни анђели са неба славна
Демони мрачни дубина зли'
Не раставише, где море сни,
Мене од моје Анабел Ли.
Ноћ плимом бије – дух крај ње бдије
Крај гроба њена где тихо спи –
Уз ѕвирку вала, крај ромон – жала
Где море сиње сне своје сни.

 

[Мармеладова]

a i raskazite mu se mnogu zanimlivi i interesni a mi se cini deka mu se nesto kako avtobiografija bas se super, e duri togas ubo ke se naezis dur gi citas (kako ubival macki ko bil pijanhehe ...a i sarl bodler nes vaka pisel ko i edgar dvata imat slicen stil na pisenje

 

[BeBe11]

Гавранот ми е ептен добра, толку ме допре кога ја читавме. Едноставно се гледа колку му е тешко на човекот...
А други ствари не му сакам многу мислам многу е темен а не ми се свиѓаат мене многу темни ствари.