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Thursday, January 21, 2021

Li Bai, A Poem of Changgan

(source: A Poem of Changgan)
no copyright infringement intended



My hair had hardly covered my forehead.
I was picking flowers, playing by my door,
When you, my lover, on a bamboo horse,
Came trotting in circles and throwing green plums.
We lived near together on a lane in Ch’ang-kan,
Both of us young and happy-hearted.
 
...At fourteen I became your wife,
So bashful that I dared not smile,
And I lowered my head toward a dark corner
And would not turn to your thousand calls;
But at fifteen I straightened my brows and laughed,
Learning that no dust could ever seal our love,
That even unto death I would await you by my post
And would never lose heart in the tower of silent watching.
 
...Then when I was sixteen, you left on a long journey
Through the Gorges of Ch’u-t’ang, of rock and whirling water.
And then came the Fifth-month, more than I could bear,
And I tried to hear the monkeys in your lofty far-off sky.
Your footprints by our door, where I had watched you go,
Were hidden, every one of them, under green moss,
Hidden under moss too deep to sweep away.
And the first autumn wind added fallen leaves.
And now, in the Eighth-month, yellowing butterflies
Hover, two by two, in our west-garden grasses
And, because of all this, my heart is breaking
And I fear for my bright cheeks, lest they fade.
 
...Oh, at last, when you return through the three Pa districts,
Send me a message home ahead!
And I will come and meet you and will never mind the distance,
All the way to Chang-feng Sha.



(Li Bai)

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Tuesday, January 19, 2021

Li Bai, Visiting The Taoist Priest Dai Tianshan But Not Finding Him

(image source: Bag of Anything)
no copyright infringement intended



A dog's bark amid the water's sound,
Peach blossom that's made thicker by the rain.
Deep in the trees, I sometimes see a deer,
And at the stream I hear no noonday bell.
Wild bamboo divides the green mist,
A flying spring hangs from the jasper peak.
No-one knows the place to which he's gone,
Sadly, I lean on two or three pines.
(source: Chinese Poems)



(Li Bai)

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Monday, January 18, 2021

Li Bai, Waking From Drunkenness on a Spring Day

(image source: pinterest)
no copyright infringement intended



“Life in the World is but a big dream:
I will not spoil it by any labour or care.”
So saying, I was drunk all the day,
Lying helpless at the porch in front of my door.

When I woke up, I blinked at the garden lawn;
A lonely bird was singing amid the flowers.
I asked myself, had the day been wet or fine?
The Spring wind was telling the mango-bird.

Moved by its song, I soon began to sigh,
And as wine was there, I filled my own cup.
Wildly singing, I waited for the moon to rise,
When my song was over, all my senses had gone.
(source: owleyes)



(Li Bai)

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Sunday, January 17, 2021

Li Bai

Spring Evening Banquet
at the Peach and Pear Blossom Garden
with quoted text by Li Bai
painted by Leng Mei, late 17th or early 18th century
National Palace Museum, Taipei
(image source: wiki)
no copyright infringement intended




Li Bai (701–762) (also known as Li Bo, courtesy name Taibai, art name Qinglian Jushi) was a Chinese poet, one of the most prominent figures in the Golden Age of Chinese poetry, as it's known the epoch of Tang dinasty. The expression Three Wonders denote Li Bai's poetry, Pei Min's swordplay, and Zhang Xu's calligraphy (info source: wiki)








(A Life in Books)

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Tuesday, January 12, 2021

Edward Yang, Taipei Story, 1985

Edward Yang, Taipei Story, 1985
(image source: quinlan)
no copyright infringement intended


WORK IN PROGRESS










(Edward Yang)

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Monday, January 11, 2021

Edward Yang

Edward Yang
1947 - 2007
(source: MUBI)
no copyright infringement intended



... his films are quiet, slow, and use a minimum of dialogue; Antonioni comes to mind; but Yang thinks rather at the Chinese brush painting as primary source (Cranes Are Flying... it is a new kind of cinema, to be found in the works of Abbas Kiarostami and Mohsen Makhmalbaf, of Hou Hsiao-Hsien and Edward Yang (A Rational Mind) ...











(Taiwanese Cinema)

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Saturday, January 02, 2021

Carlos Drummond de Andrade, Passagem do ano

( imagem por Roundtheworld )
no copyright infringement intended
 


Passagem do ano

O último dia do ano
não é o último dia do tempo.
Outros dias virão
e novas coxas e ventres te comunicarão o calor [da vida.

Beijarás bocas, rasgarás papéis,
farás viagens e tantas celebrações
de aniversário, formatura, promoção, glória, [doce morte com sinfonia e coral,
que o tempo ficará repleto e não ouvirás o [clamor,
os irreparáveis uivos
do lobo, na solidão.

O último dia do tempo
não é o último dia de tudo.

Fica sempre uma franja de vida
onde se sentam dois homens.

Um homem e seu contrário,
uma mulher e seu pé,
um corpo e sua memória,
um olho e seu brilho,
uma voz e seu eco,
e quem sabe até se Deus…
Recebe com simplicidade este presente do [acaso.
Mereceste viver mais um ano.
Desejarias viver sempre e esgotar a borra dos [séculos.
Teu pai morreu, teu avô também.

Em ti mesmo muita coisa já expirou, outras [espreitam a morte,
mas estás vivo. Ainda uma vez estás vivo,
e de copo na mão
esperas amanhecer.

O recurso de se embriagar.
O recurso da dança e do grito,
o recurso da bola colorida,
o recurso de Kant e da poesia,
todos eles… e nenhum resolve.

Surge a manhã de um novo ano.
As coisas estão limpas, ordenadas.
O corpo gasto renova-se em espuma.
Todos os sentidos alerta funcionam.

A boca está comendo vida.
A boca está entupida de vida.
A vida escorre da boca,
lambuza as mãos, a calçada.
A vida é gorda, oleosa, mortal, sub-reptícia.
fonte: verseando )



Pasaje del ano

El último día del año
no es el último día del tiempo.
Otros días vendrán
y nuevos muslos y vientres te comunicarán el calor de la vida.

Besarás bocas, rasgarás papeles,
harás viajes y tantas celebraciones
de aniversario, graduación, promoción, gloria, dulce muerte con sinfonía y coral,
que el tiempo quedará repleto y no oirás el clamor,
los irreparables aullidos
del lobo, en la soledad.

El último día del tiempo
no es el último día de todo.
Queda siempre una franja de vida
donde se sientan dos hombres.
Un hombre y su contrario,
una mujer y su pie,
un cuerpo y su memoria,
un ojo y su brillo,
una voz y su eco,
y quien sabe si hasta Dios…

Recibe con simplicidad este presente del acaso.
Mereciste vivir un año más.
Desearías vivir siempre y agotar la borra de los siglos.
Tu padre murió, tu abuelo también.
En ti mismo mucha cosa ya expiró, otras acechan la muerte,
pero estás vivo. Una vez más estás vivo.
Y con la copa en la mano
esperas amanecer.

El recurso de embriagarse.
El recurso de la danza y del grito,
el recurso de la pelota de colores,
el recurso de Kant y de la poesía,
todos ellos… y ninguno resuelve nada.

Surge la mañana de un nuevo año.

Las cosas están limpias, ordenadas.
El cuerpo gastado se renueva en espuma.

Todos los sentidos alerta funcionan.
La boca está comiendo vida.
La boca está atascada de vida.
La vida escurre de la boca,
mancha las manos, la vereda.
La vida es gorda, oleosa, mortal, subrepticia.
fuente: verseando )





Passage of the Year

The last day of the year
isn't the last day of time.
Others day shall come
and new thighs and bellies shall communicate to you the heat of life.
You shall kiss mouths, you shall rip up papers,
you shall make voyages and so many celebrations
of birthday, graduation, promotion, glory, sweet death with symphony
and choir,
that the time shall remain replete and you shall not hear the clamor,
the irreparable howls
of the wolf, in solitude.
 
The last day of time
isn't the last day of everything.
There always remains some fringe of life
where two men sit.
A man and his opposite,
a woman and her foot,
a body and its memory,
an eye and its glimmer,
a voice and its echo,
and who knows if even God . . .
 
Receive with simplicity this present of chance.
You deserved to live one more year.
You hoped to live forever and to deplete the dreg of the centuries.
Your father died, your grandfather too.
In you yourself many things have already expired, others peek out at death,
but you are alive. Still one more time you are alive,
and with a cup in hand
you await the dawn.
 
The appeal of inebriating oneself.
The appeal of the dance and of the shout,
the appeal of the colorful ball,
the appeal of kant and of poetry,
all of them . . . and none of them resolves things.
 
The morning of a new year surges up.
The things are clean, orderly.
The body of gestures replenishes itself in foam.
All the senses function in alertness.
The mouth is eating up life.
The mouth is stuffed with life.
The life spills from the mouth,
besmirches the hands, the pavement.
Life is fat, smelly, mortal, sub-reptilian.
(source: lyricstranslate)


Nuit du nouvel an

Le dernier jour de l'an
n'est pas le dernier jour du temps.
D'autres jours viendront
et cuisse et ventre nouveaux te communiqueront la chaleur de la vie.
bouches embrassées, papiers déchirés,
tu feras de si nombreux voyages et célébrations
d'anniversaire, remise de diplômes, promotion, gloire, douce mort avec symphonie et corail,
que le temps sera comblé et tu n'entendras pas la clameur,
le hurlement irréparable
du loup, dans la solitude.
 
Le dernier jour du temps
n'est pas le dernier jour de tout.
Il reste toujours une frange de vie
où deux hommes sont assis.
Un homme et son contraire,
une femme et son pied,
un corps et sa mémoire,
un œil et son éclat,
une voix et son écho,
et qui sait si jusqu'à Dieu ...
 
Reçois avec simplicité ce présent du hasard.
Tu mérites de vivre plus d'un an.
Tu aimerais toujours vivre et épuiser la lie des siècles.
Ton père est mort, ton grand-père aussi.
Même en toi, bien des choses ont déjà expiré, d'autres épient leur mort,
mais tu es vivant. Une fois encore tu es vivant,
et une coupe à la main
tu attends l'aube.

Le recours à l'ivresse.
Le recours à la danse et au cri,
le recours à la boule colorée,
le recours à kant et à la poésie,
à tous ... et rien n'est résolu.
 
Le matin apparait du nouvel an.
Les choses sont limpides, ordonnées.
Le geste du corps renouvelle son écume.
Tous les sens en alerte fonctionnent.
La bouche est consumée de vie.
La bouche est engorgée de vie.
La vie s'écoule de la bouche,
barbouille tes mains, la chaussée.
La vie est grasse, huileuse, mortelle, subreptice.
(source: lyricstranslate)



Il passaggio dell’anno

L’ultimo giorno dell’anno
non è l’ultimo giorno del tempo.
Altri giorni verranno
e nuove cosce e ventri ti trasmetteranno il calore della vita.
Bacerai bocche, strapperai fogli,
farai viaggi e tante feste
di compleanno, laurea, promozione, gloria, dolce morte con sinfonia
e corale,
sicché il tempo ne rimarrà riempito e tu non sentirai il clamore,
gli insopprimibili ululati
del lupo, nella solitudine.

L’ultimo giorno del tempo
non è l’ultimo giorno di tutto.
Resta sempre una frangia di vita
dove due uomini si siedono.
Un uomo e il suo contrario,
una donna e il suo piede,
un corpo e la sua memoria,
un occhio e la sua luce,
una voce e la sua eco,
e chissà se anche Dio...
 
Accetta con semplicità questo dono del caso.
Ti sei meritato di vivere un altro anno.
Vorresti vivere per sempre e esaurire fino all’ultima goccia i secoli.
Tuo padre è morto, anche tuo nonno.
Dentro te stesso già molte cose son svanite, altre attendono la morte,
ma tu sei vivo. Una volta di più tu sei vivo,
e col bicchiere in mano
aspetti l’indomani.
 
Far ricorso a una bella sbronza.
Far ricorso alla danza e al grido,
far ricorso al pallone colorato,
far ricorso a kant e alla poesia,
a tutto questo... e nessuno risolve.
(source: lyricstranslate)
 
Arriva il mattino d’un nuovo anno.
Le cose sono linde, ordinate.
Il corpo smunto si rinnova in schiuma.
Tutti i sensi allerta funzionano.
La bocca sta mangiando vita.
La bocca è rimpinzata di vita.
La vita scorre dalla bocca,
lecca le mani, la strada.
La vita è grassa, oleosa, mortale, impostora.
(source: lyricstranslate)




(Carlos Drummond de Andrade) 

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Friday, January 01, 2021

Carlos Drummond de Andrade

Carlos Drummond de Andrade
1902-1987
fonte: Arquivo Nacional
no copyright infringement intended



poeta, contista e cronista brasileiro, considerado por muitos o mais influente poeta brasileiro do século XX ( fonte: wiki )





( Una Vida Entre Libros )

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