Ask for help to read poems about the rain flowers on the moon, and write your own feelings into literary essays.

10 1 "Stop under an old oak tree in rainy days"

Olaf haug (Norway)

It's not just the rainy days that make me

Park by the side of the road

Under the old oak tree. Go ...

Under the broad canopy

I feel very safe. seemingly

Like relatives.

Oak and me

Quiet, stand and listen.

Raindrops ooze from the leaves,

Looking up at the cloudy day,

I'll wait, I understand.

The world is ancient, and we are thinking,

We are getting old, too.

The hard ground under my feet has changed now.

The leaves have begun to fall,

Humid air smell

Slight acid, I feel it.

Raindrops on the scalp.

(Nishikawa translation)

Like to speak: I think of a sentence by Ji Bolun: "Although the waves of language always cover us, our depths are always quiet." . Enjoy nature and life in silence like Hogg, and write and think in silence. It is also a virtue to remain "simple and anonymous" in this era.

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102 "Journey"

Edward Field (USA)

Everything was different when he got up that morning:

He likes this beautiful spring day,

But he didn't fully understand it, just enjoyed it.

He walked along the street to the railway station.

Through the magnolia tree with dead flowers like broken socks,

It's been a long time since he breathed so simply.

Tears welled up in his eyes and he felt so good.

But he held back,

Because men don't cry while walking in that town.

While waiting for the bus on the platform of the railway station

A wave of fear came upon him, and he felt something terrible was going to happen:

The train will be late, so he recited the letters to keep calm.

When the train roared,

Stop at every station as usual,

When people go up and down, telephone poles fly over,

He covered his face with a newspaper,

I couldn't bear it any longer, sobbing and holding my eyes back.

Observe carefully the orderly interwoven twill on the chair cover.

He didn't do what he originally imagined to do.

He cried for a long time, but finally calmed down.

A fist-like hand caught him,

When he reached the finish line, he stood up and got off the train;

On the streets of all the places where he will live in the future,

He walked and walked, and finally became himself, a person among people,

In high spirits, everyone couldn't help looking at him curiously.

(translated by Huang Canran)

I like to say: this is a poem translated by Huang Canran, and I am very relieved of Huang Canran's translation. What I want to say is that I have had such an experience. It's wonderful to think of it now.

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Pope's penis

Sharon Oz (USA)

It hangs deep in his robe, in the center of the clock.

Exquisite clock hammer.

He moved, it moved, a ghostly fish.

Swimming in the light of silvery white seaweed, body hair

Swing in darkness and heat-when night comes

When his eyes fell asleep, it stood up.

Praise god.

(Translated by Li Yiliang)

I like to express my feelings: it is not only the presentation of facts, but also the presentation of art and poetry. The strength of poetry lies in concreteness, which is the main difference between this poem and metaphysical philosophy. Millions of years of human spiritual accumulation and grand and complex background have provided solid support for more concise writing of poetry.

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104 "Happiness lies in smallness and silence"

Lorna crozet (Canada)

Happiness lies in smallness,

It only occupies a corner of the soul;

It is formed in seasons and winds,

It is a piece of green grass,

This is a nameless little flower,

Let the fragrance float gently in the breeze.

Happiness lies in silence.

Like the moon, it will never tell you,

Just like petrified golden honey turns into amber,

Like a bone turned to stone,

Like a moth that turns into a silkworm chrysalis.

Happiness lies in the body,

It won't become words,

No sound or instruction will be given,

Like an old dog without a name,

But whatever you call it,

It will move stiff limbs.

If you are tired of people, you are tired of words.

Even if the words carved on animal bones are a few lines;

Happiness lies in smallness and silence,

Their words are reflected in their actions!

When people become stones, bones and wings,

Without making a sound of appreciation,

In order to find his perfect form,

It becomes an image.

(translated by Zhu Hui)

I like the testimony: "I don't love that much, just a little." Sometimes I just like one or several poems of a poet, not a poet, and people are sometimes very boring.

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105 face to face

Thomas Tron Str? m (Sweden)

February, still alive.

The bird is lazy Yu Feixiang, but the soul.

Polishing the landscape, like a boat.

Friction where the ferry stops.

The tree stands with its back facing here.

Dead line measures the depth of snow.

Footprints on frozen soil will age.

The language buzzed under the tarpaulin.

One day, something ran to the window.

I looked up when my work was interrupted.

Colors are burning. Everything has changed.

The earth and I jumped at each other.

(translated by Li Li)

I like to express my feelings: although Kitajima is not satisfied with several Zhuang Strom's poems translated by Li Li in The Rose of Time. But I think Li Li's translation is good on the whole. In 2002, I asked someone to buy Trong Stromer's poems, which were translated by Li Li.

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106 Lily

Mary? Oliver (USA)

night after night

dark

Lily-shrouded

face

Gently,

Close its five walls.

Around it,

And its

Honey sac,

Its fragrance,

replace

In that garden,

Can't sleep,

Maybe,

In lily's words.

Some whispers

We can't hear you.

Especially when there is no wind.

No matter where it is,

Its lips

So quiet

Its tongue

So mysterious—

Maybe,

It didn't say anything.

Just standing there.

Bring vegetables.

And the patience of saints

Until the whole earth turns around.

A silvery moon

Into a golden sun—

Lily is wide awake,

Isn't it itself?

Perfect prayer?

(translated by Hu)

Love words: with Mary? Oliver's poems always give people unexpected surprises. On Hu's blog, I found that my brother translated Mary? Oliver's poems. Condorcet said: "We are still infinitely far away from the United States." We can't create beauty, but we can appreciate it devoutly and discover it with our heart. Don't forget that we are beautiful ourselves.

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107 "Driving at night"

Seamus Heaney (Ireland)

Driving through France at night

Ordinary countryside smells novel;

Rain, hay and trees blend into the air.

Warm current flows through the convertible.

The white road sign kept flashing.

Montriel, Abbeville, Bavaria

As the road sign shows, it has come, come and gone.

Every village reports the exact name of the place.

A harvester groaned and worked until evening.

The leaked seed passes through the light shining on it.

A forest fire smoldered the embers.

Small coffee shops turn off the lights one by one.

I've been thinking about you.

In Italy, 1000 miles south.

Stretch your hips to France in the dark.

Your ordinary is updated there.

(translated by Wu Dean)

Like to give testimony: what can be said is the truth, but what can't be said is the poetry and rich inner feelings when present.

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108 snowman

Wallace Stevens (USA)

People should have a winter mood.

Appreciate the cold and

Pine branches bent by heavy snow;

Suffer from a cold for a long time

In order to observe the juniper trees with ice edges.

In the January sunshine, look at that swaying.

Giant spruce; Not in the howling wind,

In the fallen leaves,

Think of the desolation and misery.

That's the voice of the earth

This is the same wind.

Blowing in the same wilderness.

Blow for those who can listen to the wind in the snow,

But he is nothing himself. He observes it.

Only nothingness in the snow and nothingness outside the snow.

(Li Shunchun, Wesley Wang)

Love to express feelings: It is particularly important for poets to establish an independent and mature aesthetic consciousness. I think it should include the following points: 1, good wishes for understanding and interpretation; 2. Patience and courage to explore meaning; 3. Extremely inclusive; 4. Maintain personal preferences and preferences.

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109 "noon"

Che milos (Poland)

In the hotel on the mountain, the shade is higher than that of chestnut trees.

The three of us are next to an Italian family.

Sitting in a pine forest arranged horizontally.

A little girl nearby is pumping water from a well.

Swallows sing in the sky.

Oh, I hear my inner voice, oh,

What a nice noon, it won't appear again,

At the moment, I am sitting beside her and her.

Every stage of life in the past

Bring the wine on the checkered tablecloth.

The granite on the island was washed away by the sea.

The three of us are a self-happy idea.

The resin fragrance of Corsica accompanies us in summer.

(Translated by Zhang Shuguang)

Like to give testimony: some values and meanings cannot be doubted. Otherwise we will fall into the abyss of nihilism. As poets, we should, like milosz, firmly believe that virtue, kindness, wisdom and ideals represent us. Now we all live in concepts and forms, and the swallows in the morning can't wake us up.

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1 10 "shadow"

Marin Sorescu (Romania)

If our shadows

It also has five functions,

We have two hearts at the same time,

What a wonderful thing that would be.

But, from us to the shadow,

It's been a long time

Abstract process,

All our indifference.

Reach the peak in the shadow.

some people

Only live in your own shadow,

Even with the whole shadow,

But on the other hand, sometimes with one hand,

Sometimes with one eye.

(translated by Feng)

I like speeches: this year's Nobel Prize in Literature was awarded to herta mueller, a Romanian-born German poet and essayist. It's a pity that I haven't seen her work. It is said that she is an "unpopular" writer. In fact, there are many outstanding poets in the former Eastern European countries. Among my favorite poems, besides American poets, there are many poets from Eastern Europe and Northern Europe.

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The swallow of Auschwitz

Adam. Zagajewski (Poland)

In the tranquility of the barracks,

In the silence of summer Sunday,

The harsh cry of swallows.

Did all this really throw away human words?

(Translated by Zhang Shuguang)

Like speaking: This is a short poem translated by Zhang Shuguang on his blog. I went to Shuguang's blog today, but I couldn't find it. Maybe Shuguang feels uncomfortable with the translation. Think again. But I care about this little poem. What I think is that when facing and presenting such a context as Auschwitz, poets should not rush to express anything, but should first experience and deeply reflect. This is related to the moral problems in writing.

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1 12 frosted window

Rolf jakobsson (Norway)

Stars!

Look, there is frost on the window. In the window of the earth

It's the stars that split like frozen dew.

Let's breathe into them,

A sign of our hearts,

We give young warmth to the sleeping crystal,

That's why they turn into happy tears, like streams.

Run away with a smile, let's.

Catch a glimpse of the stormy blue sky.

(translated by Dong Jiping)

Like to say: the weather is getting cold. On the way to and from work, the fallen leaves began to fly again, and the season of thinking came again. Reading such a good poem brings me to a silent and clear silence. We write and read poems, just like we spend the long cold winter chopping wood.

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1 13 "One Hope"

Edith S?dergran (Finland)

In our sunny world,

I only have benches in the garden.

A cat basking in the sun on a bench. ...

I'll sit there,

I have a letter in my arms,

A unique message.

This is my dream. ...

(North Island translation)

Like to say: on Sunday night, I watched "The Gate of Midnight" in North Island at home. In the book, North Island once again mentioned Sodeglan. Surprised, I took out Sodergeland's poem and reread it. I am full of emotions. I haven't read such a pure, melancholy and lonely poem for a long time.

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1 14 memory

Benny Anderson (Denmark)

Memories of the past sometimes come to my mind.

My situation is much better now than before.

Recall the past

I often go to the dentist.

My fountain pen always leaks.

I once suspected

My bike was stolen.

I am worried about the future.

In the future, it seems now,

The result is very good.

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Rain at dawn

Rolf jakobsson (Norway)

The patient morning rain is waiting at the gate.

Barefoot, ragged, like a begging girl.

Standing in the forest for a long time, waiting in the pasture

Be silent in front of the window and look at me when I sleep.

In the early morning rain, you silently walk around the house and the gate.

Why do you have such peaceful steps and such gentle steps?

You are the white summer itself. She asked you to go.

Then let's stop paying attention to the houses of those who are in rags.

However, wherever you go, wherever you are.

Give the broad peace to the grass, and the fields will glow. who are you

Silence sings the loneliness in God's heart.

Those who cover our windows with blind caresses.

(translated by Dong Jiping)

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1 16 Pine Trees in the Game

Paavo Haavik (Finland)

Pine trees are playing and cones are generally raining.

As simple and rough as a mountain

Daughter of a rich woodcutter, listen.

If you have never loved, if I have never loved.

Love (when breaking up.

Complaining), listen,

Pine cones have fallen from pine trees.

A steady stream of enthusiasm

On your head.

(North Island translation)

I like to express my feelings: sometimes when we are pessimistic about life, we might as well learn enthusiasm and courage from nature.

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This tree

Joyce Kimmer (USA)

I don't think I will ever see it.

Any poem is more lovely and admirable than a tree.

Tree, your thirsty mouth

Suck sweet juice from the earth;

Tree, you look up to God all day,

Open your leafy arms, pray and bless;

In summer, the tree is on your head.

Rest as a nest of robins;

In winter, there is winter snow in your chest.

Rain is closely associated with it and blends with each other.

And those who scribble a few lines of poetry are as stupid as me,

Only God can build a tree.

(translated by Zhang Fang)

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1 18 rainy September

Robert bly (USA)

In rainy September, when leaves grow in dark places,

I put my forehead on the wet seaweed-smelling beach.

It's time. I put off my choice for several years.

Maybe a lifetime. Ferns have no choice but to survive.

For its stubbornness, it accepted soil, water and night.

We close the door. "I have no right to ask you."

Dusk is coming. "My love for you is enough."

We know we can be alone.

Wild ducks leave the group and drift,

The oak tree was left alone on the desolate hillside.

Men and women before us have done this.

Once a year, I see you and you see me.

We will be two fruit stones and will not be planted.

We stayed in the room, closed the door and put out the light.

I shed tears with you, without shame and self-esteem.

(translated by Dong Jiping)

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1 19 to Sisyphus.

Adonis (Syrian)

I vowed to write on the water.

I swear to be with Sisyphus.

Share his silent rock.

I swear to be with Sisyphus.

Experience fanaticism and sparks,

Look for it in the blind eyes

The last feather

Write for autumn and grass

Poetry of dust.

I vowed to live with Sisyphus.

(Bai Wei compiled)

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120 Travel along the Hudson River by train

Adam. Zagajewski (Poland)

The river glistened in the sun—

River, how can you stand such a scene:

Low, wrinkled

Iron carriages, in their small windows.

A dull, lifeless face

Shining river, get up.

How can you stand peeling oranges?

Coca-Cola cans and pieces

Dirty and once pure

Snowflakes.

Get up, river.

I am sleepy in the half light and half darkness.

Bend over a book in the library.

Mark with someone's pencil,

Only half of them are still alive.

Get up, lovely river.

(Translated by Li Yiliang)

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12 1 "Adelstrom"

Edward? Thomas (UK)

Yes, I remember Adele stroop-

This place name, because one afternoon

The express train stopped there in the heat.

Unusually. It was in late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared their throat.

Nobody went and nobody came.

An empty platform. What I saw.

Adele stroop is just a name.

Willow, willow leaves and grass,

Rusty chrysanthemums and conical haystacks,

Compared with the distant debris clouds in the sky

There is no beauty of silence and loneliness.

Just then, a blackbird sang a song.

It's nearby, around it, more and more like fog,

Farther and farther, all the birds.

From Oxford and Gloucestershire.

(translated by Zhou Weichi)

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122 "A snowy night in Marin"

Frost (USA)

Whose forest is this? I think I know.

Although his house is in the village;

He won't see me parked here.

Look at his Woods covered with snowflakes.

My pony will feel strange.

Why stop? Is there no farmhouse nearby?

Between the Woods and the ice lake

The darkest night of the year.

He shook the bell around his neck.

Ask if there is any mistake.

The only other sounds are just

Leisurely wind and fluffy snowflakes pass by.

The forest is lovely, dark and deep.

But I have to keep some promises,

There's still a long way to go before going to bed,

There is still a long way to go before going to bed.

(translated by Zhou Weichi)

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123 fireflies

Rolf jakobsson (Norway)

This is a night with fireflies.

We are waiting for the bus to villette.

We saw two old people come in.

Kissing under the buttonwood tree. at that moment

Half of you say to the air.

Half said to me:

Anyone who has been in love for many years

All this is in vain.

Just then, I saw it in the dark.

The first firefly, on your head

Shining with light.

Just then.

(translated by Dong Jiping)

I like to say: I first saw this poem many years ago, at an old bookstall in front of a supermarket. A lovely firefly triggered our experience and gratitude for existence and love.

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124 Three Chapters of Poetry

Robert bly (USA)

1

Ah, in the early hours of the morning, I think I will live forever.

Happy bodies surround me,

It seems that the grass is wrapped in its Lv Yun.

2

Get up, I had a dream.

Dreaming of walking through castles and hot coal piles

The sun is lying on my lap happily.

I stayed up all night and survived.

Rinse in dark water, just like any blade of grass.

three

The big leaves of boxwood

Shake violently in the wind and call us.

Disappear into the wilderness of the universe

We will sit under the tree.

Eternal life is like dust.

(translated by Zheng Min)

Like to say: poets should have universal consciousness. Before each poem, we should first think of the vast starry sky.

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125 "Rose"

Lisa-Marie Bloom (Germany)

I am in vain.

Looking for that old vase,

You use it to insert.

My rose.

Dark shop

It's full of worthless things,

I am looking for it.

Nothing can compare with this vase,

No vase can be as beautiful as it.

Full figure, shiny and opaque.

The treasure of a century is it.

Let this rose

The first bud;

Make it a little

unparalleled

And unparalleled immortality.

I am in vain.

Still working hard

Bring it back.

(translated by Jin Yi)

Like to say: don't write roses, write vases. In fact, our so-called love hurts the rose.