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Inspirisala me Patuljasta zvezda pa bi red bio da pocnemo sa ovogodisnjim pobednikom




First published in Asimov's Science Fiction
Copyright © 2008, Geoffrey A. Landis

Song for an Ancient City
by Amal El-Mohtar


Merchant, keep your attar of roses,
your ambers, your oud,
your myrrh and sandalwood. I need
nothing but this dust
palmed in my hand's cup
like a coin, like a mustard seed,
like a rusted key.
I need
no more than this, this earth
that isn't earth, but breath,
the exhalation of a living city, the song
of a flute-boned woman,
air and marrow on her lips. This dust,
shaken from a drum, a door opening, a girl's heel
on stone steps, this dust
like powdered cinnamon, I would wear
as other girls wear jasmine and lilies,
that a child with seafoam eyes
and dusky skin might cry, there
goes a girl with seven thousand years
at the hollow of her throat, there
goes a girl who opens her mouth to pour
caravans, mamelukes, a mongolian horde
from lips that know less of roses
than of temples in the rising sun!

Damascus, Dimashq
is a song I sing to myself. I would find
where she keeps her mouth, meet it with mine,
press my hand against her palm
and see if our fingers match. She
is the sound, the feel
of coins shaken in a cup, of dice,
the alabaster clap of knight claiming rook,
of kings castling — she is the clamour
of tambourines and dirbakki,
nays sighing, qanouns musing, the complaint
of you merchants with spice-lined hands,
and there is dust in her laughter.

I would drink it, dry my tongue
with this noise, these narrow streets,
until she is a parched pain in my throat, a thorned rose
growing outwards from my belly's pit, aching fragrance
into my lungs. I need no other. I
would spill attar from my eyes,
mix her dust with my salt,
steep my fingers in her stone
and raise them to my lips.

The Ballad of Beta-2
Samuel R Delaney

Then came one to the City,
Over sand with her bright hair wild,
With her eyes coal black and her feet sole sore,
And under her arms a green-eyed child.

Three men stood on the City wall,
One was short and two were tall,
One had a golden trumpet clear
That he shouted through so all would hear

That one had come to the City,
Over sand... etc.

A woman stood by a market stall,
The tears like diamonds on her cheek,
One eye was blind, she could not speak
But she heard the guards of the City call out:

One has come to the City,
Over sand... etc.

One man stood by the court house door
To judge again as he'd judged before,
When he heard the guards of the City cry,
He said, "She is come back to the City to die."

Yes, she's come back to the City,
Over sand ... etc.

Another man stood on Death's Head hill,
His face was masked, his hands were still.
Over his shoulder he carried a rope
And he stood stock quiet on Death's Head slope.

Three at the City wall cried: "Away!
Come back to the City another day."
But down below the woman stood:
I came back like I said I would,

Yes, I've come back to the City,
Over sand with my bright hair ... etc.

A time you gave me to travel far,
Find the green-eyed one who made you what you are
Well, I've searched a City and the desert dunes,
And I've found no man who caused our ruin.

But I've come back to the City
Over sand... etc.

She walked through the gates and the children cried,
She walked through the Market and the voices died,
She walked past the court house and the judge so still,
She walked to the bottom of Death's Head hill.

Down from the hill came the man with the rope,
Met her at the bottom of Death's Head slope,
She looked at the City and she turned and smiled.
A one-eyed woman held her green-eyed child.

Fire and blood, meat, dung and bone,
Down on your knees; steel, stone and wood
Today are dust, and the City's gone,
But she came back like she said she would.
Yes, one came back to the City,

Over sand, with her bright hair wild,
With her eyes coal black and her feet sole sore,
And under her arms a green-eyed child.


(iz istoimenog romana)

Ovakve stvarčice bi mogle bit' zanimljive:

Legenda o Bereku Troprstu iz "Kobi poglavara Kletnika" Stivena Donaldsona      prepev: Zoran Jakšić U ratu ljudi odu k'o senke boje što po travi linu, Ostavivši živote u zelenom kraju: Dok Zemlja nariče u grimiznom sjaju, Snovi ljudi, zvezde i šapat bespomoćno minu. U crvenoj senci sred plama i jada, U crvenoj lokvi što pod njim je skrita, Berek skota žanje poput zrelog žita Al' čuvar sveg lepog poslednji je sada. Poslednji u senci poraza da mine, Poslednji da kuša ponor očajanja, I pusti oružje da leži sred granja Svoju troprst šaku sa bitke da skine. Livadama Domaje dušmanin je stao Izdajnik sad drsko hoda tu za njime, A Berek je bežao ispred gadne plime Dok Planinom Groma nije zaplakao. Bereče! Zemljorode! - pomozi, prikloni Bojnu pomoć protiv mrskoga tog gada! Zemlja daje i klicanju Moći zvoni, Odzvanja, Zemljorode! Pomozi i pokloni, Domaju poštedi od smrti i jada.

The legend of Berek Halfhand from Stephen R. Donaldson's "Lord Foul's Bane" In war men pass like shadows that stain the grass, Leaving their lives upon the green: While Earth bewails the crimson sheen, Men's dreams and stars and whispers all helpless pass. In one red shadow by woe and wicked cast, In one red pool about his feet, Berek mows the vile like ripe wheat, Though of all of Beauty's guarders he is last: Last to pass into the shadow of defeat, And last to feel the full despair, And leave his weapons lying there Take his half unhanded hand from battle seat. Across the plains of the Land they all swept Treachers lust at faltering stride As Berek fled before the tide, Till on Mount Thunder's rock-mantled side he wept. Berek! Earthfriend!-Help and weal, Battle-aid against the foe! Earth gives and answers Power's peal, Ringing, Earthfriend! Help and heal! Clean the Land from bloody death and woe!

Brakus na B92 recituje Bregoviceve pesme (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mr9Ys4RhDd4#normal)

kako kazuje!

Ponesto iz Chimeric Machines Lucy A. Snyde, od pre neki dan dobitnice Stokera za poeziju

Trepanation

The first migraine-plagued caveman
who countered his aching cranium
with crudely pounded flint (and lived)
surely shared his medical breakthrough.
Headcutting is old as woodcutting.
Andean shaman or Alpine physician,
a good doctor knew the value
of airing out a fevered brain.
In dark ages before Lister and Pasteur,
chirurgeons didn't know a virus
from a curse, but they needed a name
for the rusty saw they used to open
a blow-swelled skull: the trepane
saved careless patricians from coma.
Modern surgeons' steel is clean, but treat
tyro trepanation with trepidation. Teen
mystics sing high of tuning third eyes
and praise their cordless doorknob drills
for opening new windows of perception
even as they lie blinded, bacterial feasts

Sympathy

Sympathy evolved peripherally,
a selective way to keep the tribe alive
through the secondhand pangs of trial,
tributaries of tribulation shared by blood,
our hardwired love of Rover and Fluffy just
a shadow of family need in the genes.
But what if we could feel the flesh we eat,
taste the fatal throes ol' Bossie endured
as the butcher put a hammer to her head?
What if every whitemeat nugget sliding
greasy down our throats held a grindhouse
flash of Chicken Little, debeaked and choked?
Would we shun personalized burgers
and embrace plates of cheerful fruits?
Would we eagerly flee from carnivory,
ban the slaughter and celebrate salad,
glorify veggies, their tales of pain so dull;
no yardman names the blades he mows.
But righteous sadists might dictate diets of woe:
priests would curse the sins in mother's milk
and tell their flocks to feed the babies Bambi.
Hardening souls for a Heavenly shine, pious
soldiers would savor Apocalyptic glory
in the soylent flesh of every blessed enemy.

And There in the Machine,
Virginia Finally Stood Up

Class, settle down, get out your textbooks, and turn to
page 43. After we're done reading, we can have showand-
tell for thirty minutes. No, Virginia, you can't go
first – we'll go in alphabetical order like always. Sit
down, Virginia; you can tell us about your trip when
it's your turn. I'm sorry we ran out of time before we
got to you last month, but you still have to wait your
turn. Now, everyone: turn to page 43.

You're a good player, Virginia, but Joseph is two grades
ahead of you. He's had private lessons, and he's got a
much better instrument. It's his turn to be first chair.
You have to blend with his sound; don't draw attention
to yourself.

Oh, Ginny, you're not going to wear that dress to the
party, are you? It's far too loud; don't you want to wear
your nice pink one instead? You don't want the boys
to get the wrong idea, do you? Now, remember, you
mustn't be too forward; if a boy wants to dance with
you, he'll ask. Don't talk too much. Remember to
smile. Boys like girls who smile.

He's out of your league, Gin. You're no cheerleader.
No, you shouldn't even try to talk to him. Just hang
out with us at the dance; we're your real friends. He's
out of your league.

Hey, Gin, why are you wasting your time in front of
that old typewriter? Come to the party with us! You
don't want to be a nerd, do you?

Ginny, I'm really proud that you got into MIT, but we
just can't afford it now that your father's retired. I'm
sorry, honey, but the scholarship just isn't big enough.
I know we sent your brother, but that's different. He's
going to be an engineer; you just want to major in
English, right? Boston is so far away, and big cities are
terribly dangerous. Now, honey, be reasonable! The
local college is perfectly decent. That's better. I knew
we could count on you to be a good girl.

Ms. Wilson, you did a very nice job in fiction class,
so your "A" was well-deserved. What? No, I'm afraid
I can't let you take my upper-level workshop. Yes, I
know there's a seat left, but I simply can't allow non-
MFAs into my workshop. The undergraduate program
is one thing, but our graduate school is quite exclusive.
We prefer students who are not local. Your fiction is
very competent, but I doubt you could compete with
writers from larger schools.

Miss Wilson, I realize you've been working here longer
than Mr. Jones, but he's got a degree from Harvard
and a family to support. He's got the go-getter attitude
that we want to see in our managers. I understand
your frustration, but I can't promote every deserving
employee. Be a good team player; we might be able to
find a secretarial position for you in a year or two.

Hey, Gin, what's up? Haven't seen you in years. What?
You wrote a book? Oh. That's cool, I guess. I could
write one too, you know. If I wanted. Been working on
my golf game, you know? Golf 's hard.

Miss Wilson, I'd appreciate it if you didn't have
your book cover on display in your cubicle. It's not
conducive to a productive work environment. Yes, I
know the others have football and Nascar posters up,
but sports are ... normal. Some of the others think
you're ... overstepping yourself. After all, anyone can
self-publish ... what? You mean someone paid you
to write that? Who on Earth would want to read a
book written by a secretary? Well, then, the cover's a
commercial. Employees are forbidden to use company
resources for personal gain. The cube wall is a company
resource. Take the cover down.

Miss Wilson?

What's that in your hand?

I za kraj... Poglavlje zbirke "Dark Dreams" na zalost nije dostupno za neplacajucu javnost

Tech Support

We sit at gray monitors, listening
to confused Eloi in tusky towers
divergently evolving. Always
there's a compatibility problem
between the overfocused poets
and the language of machines.

The Eloi cry doom over bright wires,
voices spores. Our minds fuzz mycotic.
No dystopia's perfect: we have a bitter savior
so we shamble, spidery, pale, seeking ambrosia.
Faith's no narcotic once you've lost humanity,
so we take noon communion in free hot coffee.

Vengeance

Small zeppelins were parked outside the ball
moored to the gaslights. Out of shadows crept
the monocled adventuress, who stepped
up to the door and had announced to all

by flunkeys that she meant to punish those
who stole her father's patents, would await
them at the duelling ground. Her quiet hate
made her cheeks bright. Her long and genteel nose

expressed her scorn at this appalling age
when men had lost their honour. She had brought
pistols, and swords, and lasers, and she fought
the six old men, in turn. She'd lived in rage

so long their deaths were just the bloody start
of all the wars she harboured in her heart.