Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away. Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance - Carl Sandburg..........Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject - John Keats .........Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge - William Wordsworth ..........Poets utter great and wise things which they do not themselves understand - Plato .........No man was ever yet a great poet, without being at the same time a profound philosopher. For poetry is the blossom and the fragrance of all human knowledge, human thoughts, human passions, emotions, language - Samuel Taylor Coleridge .........One demands two things of a poem. Firstly, it must be a well-made verbal object that does honor to the language in which it is written. Secondly, it must say something significant about a reality common to us all, but perceived from a unique perspective. What the poet says has never been said before, but, once he has said it, his readers recognize its validity for themselves - W. H. Auden ...........Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash - Leonard Cohen .........There is a pleasure in poetic pains which only poets know - William Cowper .........Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood -T. S. Eliot ..........Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason - Novalis...........He who draws noble delights from sentiments of poetry is a true poet, though he has never written a line in all his life - George Sand .........A poem is never finished, only abandoned - Paul Valery ........A poet is a bird of unearthly excellence, who escapes from his celestial realm arrives in this world warbling. If we do not cherish him, he spreads his wings and flies back into his homeland - Kahlil Gibran.............Poetry should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance - John Keats..........To be a poet is a condition, not a profession - Robert Frost........A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself - E. M. Forster.........Publishing a volume of verse is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo - Don Marquis...........Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things - T. S. Eliot ..........You can tear a poem apart to see what makes it tick. You're back with the mystery of having been moved by words. The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps so that something that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash or thunder in - Dylan Thomas .........Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words - Paul Engle......... There is not a joy the world can give like that it takes away! Lord Byron

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再别康桥

徐志摩 - 中国

轻轻的我走了,
正如我轻轻的来;

我轻轻的招手,
作别西天的云彩。

 

那河畔的金柳
是夕阳中的新娘
波光里的艳影,
在我的心头荡漾。

 

  
软泥上的青荇,

油油的在水底招摇
在康河的柔波里,
我甘心做一条水草
 

 


那榆荫下的一潭,

不是清泉,是天上虹

揉碎在浮藻间,
沉淀着彩虹似的梦。

 


  
寻梦? 撑一支长篙,

向青草更青处漫溯,

满载一船星辉,
在星辉斑斓里放歌

 

 


但我不能放歌,

悄悄是别离的笙箫;
夏虫也为我沉默,

沉默是今晚的康桥!
 

 


悄悄的我走了,

正如我悄悄的来;
我挥一挥衣袖,
不带走一片云彩

 

 

 

 

 

وداعاً "كمبردجْ"

شوجي مو - الصين

ترجمها عن الصينية: سيد جودة - مصر / هونج كونج

 

ومضيت برفقٍ برفقْ

مثلما جئت يوماً برفقٍ برفقْ

وألوِّح في خفّةٍ

لأودّع غيماً بغرب الأفـُقْ

 

وعلى جانب النهرِ

صفصافة ٌ من ذهبْ

كالعروس بعين الغروبْ

وعلى الموج لون انعكاس الضياءْ

فكأنَّ بقلبي فقاقيعَ ماءْ

 

الحشائش في طينةٍ رخوةٍ

تتمايل في الماء منسابة ً

فأودّ لو انِّي أصير بقلب النَهـَرْ

نبتة ً

 

البحيرة تحت الشجرْ

لم تعدْ صافية ْ

تتبدّى كألوان طيفٍ فرحْ

و الطحالب من فوقها طافية ْ

فترسِّب حلماً كقوس قزحْ

 

باحث ٌ عن منىً؟

خذ ْ عصاً ثمّ جدّفْ ببطءْ

في اتجاه الحشائش ِ

في قاربٍ يتلألأ ضوء النجوم عليهِ

و غنِّ بضوء النجوم المشعّ

 

غير أنّيَ لا أستطيع الغناءْ

صامتٌ هو نايي بدوني

و صامتة ٌ رغم صيفٍ هنا الحشراتْ

جسر "كََمْ"* يتراءى صموتاً بهذا المساءْ

 

و مضيت برفقٍ برفقْ

مثلما جئت يوماً برفقٍ برفقْ

و ألوّح كمَّ قميصي

لأترك خلفي غمام الأفقْْ!

 

*جسر "كم" هنا هو الجسر المعروف في مدينة "كمبردج" وكان الشاعر يدرس في جامعة "كمبردج" وكتب هذه القصيدة عن النهر والجسر الواقعين في المدينة.

 

 

Adieux à Cambridge

Xu Zhimo

 

Douce et légère est ma démarche

Tout comme mon arrivée, légère
Ma main salue gentiment
Pour prendre congé des brumes de l’ouest .

Ce saule doré sur la rive,
C’est comme une mariée au soleil couchant.

Le reflet splendide des eaux qui chatoient,
Les vaguelettes bercent mon cœur.


Ces mousses vertes sur le fond boueux,
On les voit scintiller, elles se font remarquer
Les ondes partent au loin, sur la rivière Cam
Rester ici comme une herbe d'eau, cela m'irait !


Ce point d’eau à l’ombre d’un Orme,
N
'est pas une source limpide ;

il est plutôt comme un arc-en-ciel

Tombé en morceaux entre les joncs.
Des sédiments d’arc-en-ciel, comme un rêve.


Poursuivre le rêve ?

S’appuyer sur la perche d’une barque

Remonter le courant vers des herbes vertes,

plus vertes encore

Remplir son bateau de belles poussières d’étoiles
Chanter à pleine voix sous l'astre resplendissant


Hélas je ne sais pas chanter
En silence je m'éloigne de ma flûte
Les insectes de l’été aussi se renferment,

taciturnes

Recueillement ce soir, au pont de Cambridge
  
Je repars dans la paix,
Comme je suis arrivé, silencieux
Je me secoue les manches,
Pour n'emporter avec moi

aucun morceau de nuage.

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