假奧秘 明日燈飾必須拆下 換到歡呼聲不過一刹

110愛的鼓勵 2訂閱站台

天邊金掌露成霜，雲隨雁字長。綠杯紅袖趁重陽，人情似故鄉。

蘭佩紫，菊簪黃，殷勤理舊狂。欲將沉醉換悲涼，清歌莫斷腸。

多麼新奇少見，
一柱噴泉
竟夜不息地湧流，
而楓樹冷冷地旁觀。

月光似輕霧
瀉下山牆，
雲朵成群地
在冷空中游盪。

這一切常年不變，
我們則一夜盤桓，
第二天又動身遠行，
沒有人把我們憶念。

或許若干年後
那噴泉會偶然入夢，
大門、山牆
依然是當年舊容。

像家一樣照人眼明，
卻只供人暫卸行囊：
陌生的屋頂為陌生的人，
他甚至不知身在何鄉。

多麼新奇少見，
一柱噴泉
竟夜不息地湧流，
而楓樹冷冷地旁觀！

This morning I watched the deer
with beautiful lips touching the tips
of the cranberries, setting their hooves down
in the dampness carelessly, isn't it after all
the carpet of their house, their home, whose roof
is the sky?

Why, then, was I suddenly miserable?

Wll, this is nothing much.
This is the heaviness of the body watching the swallows
gliding just under that roof.

This is the wish that the deer would not lift their heads
and leap away, leaving me there alone.
This is the wish to touch their faces, their brown wrists –
to sing some sparking poem into
the folds of their ears.

then walk with them,
over the hills
and over the hills

and into the impossible trees.




／Mary Oliver

Pods of summer crowd around the door;
I take them in the autumn of my hands.

Last night I heard the first cold wind outside;
the wind blew soft, and yet I shiver twice:

Once for thin walls, once for the sound of time.




／William Stafford

​We think of lifetimes as mostly the exceptional
and sorrows. Marriage we remember as the children,
vacations, and emergencies. The uncommon parts.
But the best is often when nothing is happening.
The way a mother picks up the child almost without
noticing and carries her across Waller Street
while talking with the other woman. What if she
could keep all of that? Our lives happen between
the memorable. I have lost two thousand habitual
breakfasts with Michiko. What I miss most about
her is that commonplace I can no longer remember.



/Jack Gilbert

詹尹乃釋策而謝曰：「夫尺有所短，寸有所長；物有所不足，智有所不明；數有所不逮，神有所不通。用君之心，行君之意。龜策誠不能知此事。」

和創世那時一樣
光忽然燦爛地照耀在人們的肩上

活著這回事
本來是如此單純

知了像初學乍練的合唱團
驟然開始齊鳴

人們已過完的七月
人們正過著的七月

雷陣雨洗落了淡妝濃抹
幸福和不幸的面孔變得一模一樣



.

1、
Even the night cooling down is slick with heat.
Even the sheet we share like a humming skin.
From three stories up the sounds of the street,
drinkers at the curb, a wet hiss of dry tires,
is a rhythm through our box fan, like panting.
When we sleep it is piecemeal until morning.

2、
Listen, the years are short. They are nothing.
I write each morning, while you are at work.
In the heat of day, I walk to the library, cold
water at the fountain, air-conditioned air; walk
with a new book back in the elm-lined shade.
At night I meet you at the top of the stairs.

3、
Where are you gone, who loved me so long
one summer far from home? Days are long.
Even the heat is lovelier there, as memory is.
We make lemonade from powder. Little wonder
the years are less than a breath, like a song
on the radio heard as the rhythm of languor.

4、
Whistle of the ice-cream truck. Drinkers at the curb.
Days and nights of heat, of sex, such tenderness.
When we sleep sometimes it is to dream of the days.
Where are they gone? Meeting on the stairs,
laughter and light, a small meal, a bottle of wine.
When we wake it is piecemeal, until we are gone.




/David Baker

你的聲音，若不從你的喉嚨發出；
而要裝成有體面的人的喉嚨發出；
那是可悲的。
　
你的聲音，必須是極為單純的，
要單純得像一個農夫那樣才像你，
要單純得像一個工人那樣才像你。
　
那些聰明的傢伙一個個地得志了，
有些人出了名就趾高氣揚，
有些人發了財就遠走高飛。
　
不必靠了一個特別理由來生活，
活下去本來就是不用藉口，
除非你侮蔑了它。

　　 你又將迷濛的春輝
　　 灑滿這幽谷叢林，
　　 你終於將我的靈魂
　　 完全地解脫消溶；
　　 你將撫慰的目光
　　 照臨我的園庭，
　　 就像友人的青眼
　　 關注我的命運。
　　 我的心感覺著
　　 樂時與憂時的迴響，
　　 我在苦與樂之間
　　 寂寞孤獨地倘佯。
　　 流吧，流吧，親愛的河！
　　 我再不會有歡愉，
　　 嬉戲、親吻、忠誠，
　　 一切都已然逝去。
　　 可我曾一度佔有
　　 那無比珍貴的至寶！
　　 我現在痛苦煩惱，
　　 就因為再不能忘記！
　　 喧響吧，流下山澗，
　　 別休止，莫停息，
　　 發出琮琮的鳴聲，
　　 和著我的歌曲。
　　 不論是在冬夜裡
　　 你洶湧地氾濫激漲，
　　 還是在陽春時節
　　 你迂迴地流進花畦。
　　 幸福啊，誰能
　　 離開塵世無所怨恨，
　　 誰能擁有一位知己，
　　 和他共同分享
　　 那人所不知的、
　　 人所不解的樂趣，
　　 作長夜的漫遊，
　　 在胸中的迷宮裡。

He goes along,
in his thin flesh,
narrow bones,
slow blood,
old hat,
old clothes,
old shoes,
singing for love, battling for love.
He will go down,
in thinner flesh,
narrower bones,
slower blood,
older hat,
older clothes,
older shoes,
battling for love, dying for love.
He will be put away,
in a thin box
down a narrow slit
of the old earth,
growing for love, rising for love:
his initials carved
on a thin seed,
narrow seed,
slow seed,
the carving as slow
as he was slow
carving his K on a song.



/Alfred Kreymborg

By June our brook's run out of song and speed
Sought for much after that, it will be found
Either to have gone groping underground
(And taken with it all the Hyla breed
That shouted in the mist a month ago
Like ghost of sleigh bells in a ghost of snow)—
Or flourished and come up in jewelweed
Weak foliage that is blown upon and bent
Even against the way its waters went
Its bed is left a faded paper sheet
Of dead leaves stuck together by the heat—
A brook to none but who remember long
This as it will be seen is other far
Than with brooks taken otherwhere in song
We love the things we love for what they are




/Robert Frost

Days that cannot bring you near
or will not,
Distance trying to appear
something more obstinate,
argue argue argue with me
endlessly
neither proving you less wanted nor less dear.

Distance: Remember all that land
beneath the plane;
that coastline
of dim beaches deep in sand
stretching indistinguishably
all the way,
all the way to where my reasons end?

Days: And think
of all those cluttered instruments,
one to a fact,
canceling each other's experience;
how they were
like some hideous calendar
“Compliments of Never & Forever, Inc.”

The intimidating sound
of these voices
we must separately find
can and shall be vanquished:
Days and Distance disarrayed again
and gone
both for good and from the gentle battleground.



/Elizabeth Bishop

Rembrandt, you have curiously attempted to be real. Now we know that that isn’t possible. You have made a frozen moment of theatre. You have stopped a costume play in action. They wanted the costume, we know that, but you encouraged them. And that was to be certain that we all knew that we were at the theatre. And at the theatre, all things are possible, even dying of love. If you think about it for one minute…the tradition of militia paintings that you so carefully broke was a true and honest tradition, where the participants can say, “Look, we are being painted. Look, we understand that we are being watched, and we are looking straight at you, into your eyes, at you, to prove it. We are not real, we are in a painting.” That is what they understood and that is what they wanted. You have spoilt all that for them, Rembrandt. You have tried to pretend that these are real people. They didn’t want that, didn’t want it at all. In your painting, they hustle and bustle about doing real things, loading muskets, giving commands, drum, run and bark, when all they wanted was to stand still and be looked at. “Here is me. Here I am in my splendid uniform, as an important member of this important club. I look at you and you look at me. I am watching you, and you are watching me.”

How again after months there is awe.
The most personal moment of the day
appears unannounced. People wear leather.
People refuse to die. There are strangers
who look like they could know your name.
And the smell of a bar on a cold night,
or the sound of traffic as it follows you home.
Sirens. Parties. How balconies hold us.
Whatever enough is, it hasn't arrived.
And on some dead afternoon
when you'll likely forget this,
as you browse through the vintage
again and again—there it is,
what everyone's given up
just to stay here. Jewelled hairpins,
scratched records, their fast youth.
Everything they've given up
to stay here and find more.



Alex Dimitrov

Late in the season the world digs in, the fat blossoms
hold still for just a moment longer.
Nothing looks satisfied,
but there is no real reason to move on much further:
this isn't a bad place;
why not pretend

we wished for it?
The bushes have learned to live with their haunches.
The hydrangea is resigned
to its pale and inconclusive utterances.
Towards the end of the season
it is not bad

to have the body. To have experienced joy
as the mere lifting of hunger
is not to have known it
less. The tobacco leaves
don't mind being removed
to the long racks—all uses are astounding

to the used.
There are moments in our lives which, threaded, give us heaven—
noon, for instance, or all the single victories
of gravity, or the kudzu vine,
most delicate of manias,
which has pressed its luck

this far this season.
It shines a gloating green.
Its edges darken with impatience, a kind of wind.
Nothing again will ever be this easy, lives
being snatched up like dropped stitches, the dry stalks of daylilies
marking a stillness we can't keep.



Jorie Graham