[llegit a les tardes d’estiu de 2024, fresc a la banyera a la terrassa]
LA BONA PLUJA D’UNA NIT DE PRIMAVERA
[Maria: (Haver estat com una pluja)]
La bona pluja sap quan és bonic que vingui.
Ve a l’abril per la llavor amagada;
la fosca tria i un ventet amic,
i en silenci la terra deixa tota amarada.
Són negres sobre el camp els núvols en repòs.
L’única llum al riu, en una barca, brilla.
Demà veurem que tot, roig i humit, s’esparpilla
i Txengtú somriurà, ben coberta de flors.
(Marià Manent)
La bona pluja sap triar el seu temps:
és primavera quan tot ho fa créixer.
Seguint el vent, oculta entra en la nit.
Calant el món, cau fina i sense fressa.
Camins del camp, i negres tots els núvols,
barques del riu i encès un sol fanal:
a l’alba veus el sòl rogenc xop d’aigua
i amb flors pertot la Ciutat del Brocat.
(Joan Ferrater)
JÚBILO POR LA LLUVIA DE UNA NOCHE PRIMAVERAL
La benigna lluvia conoce su temporada
y llega justamente en primavera.
Con la brisa, se desliza en la noche negra.
Y calladita, reparte frescor y caricias.
Se vuelven obscuras las nubes y las sendas.
Sólo brilla la débil luz de un barco que llega.
El alba nos muestra la ciudad Brocado entre flores
encarnadas, que, totalmente empapadas, inclinan las ramas.
(Guojian Chen)
Spring Night Happy About Rain
The good rain knows when to fall,
It comes when spring blossoms.
It steals in on the wind, submerged in night,
moistening all things gently without sound.
Black wilderness, black paths, black clouds;
only a torch on a riverboat sparks.
At dawn I see all things red and wet,
and flowers drown the City of Brocade. [ChengDu]
(Barnstone)
GOOD RAIN ON A SPRING NIGHT
A good rain falling
Just when it should
In springtime; riding
On the wind it fills
A whole night, soaking
The land with its goodness;
Clouds hang heavily over
Country paths; a lone light
Shines from a passing boat;
Morning and I see a damp
Redness on the branches,
Laden down with flowers.
(Antologia bilingüe)
EL POETA SOMNIA
Que trista cau la pluja! Diguem ara:
el cel plora el temps clar. L’avorriment,
com un núvol feixuc, ens aclapara.
On són joia i enginy? Seurem, lluny del rellent.
Fem versos que recordin l’estiu. Damunt la fulla
haurem de dibuixar-los suaument
com les flors ben obertes que als arbres pren el vent.
Cada cop que el pinzell la tinta mulla,
bec el vi de l’estiu en glop ardent.
Així no em volaria
com els núvols i el fum el pensament,
car el temps, amor meva, se’ns esmuny cada dia,
més lleuger que un vol d’ànecs a ponent.
LA PLUGETA
Quin seny tan fi, plugeta lleu! Ja la llavor t’espera;
dus al quintà cremat de sol frescors de primavera.
Vas néixer fosa al cor del vent, alguna nit estranya:
els solcs s’amaren del teu plor, i és verda la muntanya.
Ahir molts núvols abrandats pel cel feien corrua,
i cada llum dels mariners era una estrella nua.
Avui tot són colors frescals i papallons i merles:
ai, quina olor, jardí del Rei, brodat amb tantes perles!
(mmad)
Song of a Thatched Hut Damaged in Autumn Wind
Wind howled angrily in high autumn’s September
and tore off three layers of reed from my thatched roof.
The reeds flew over the river and scattered on the bank.
Some flew high and hung from the trees.
Some flew low and swirled and sank into pools.
The kids from the southern village took advantage of my old age,
played pirate and stole my reeds while I watched them
openly carrying armfuls into the bamboo groves.
My lips cracked, my throat dried, and I couldn’t yell out.
I returned home and leaned on my stick, sighing.
In a moment the wind stopped and clouds stood ink black,
the autumnal sky stretched into darkness in desert silence.
My cotton quilt is tattered from use and cold as iron.
In an ugly dream, my small son rips the lining with his feet.
The roof is leaking by my bed’s headboard and nowhere is dry.
The rain like yarn spins down forever.
I’ve had little sleep since the An Lushan Rebellion.
Such a wet and long night, when will it end!
I wish I had a house with thousands of rooms
to shelter all the cold people under the sky and give them happy faces.
We’d be calm as mountains when it stormed and rained.
Oh, let this big house appear before my eyes
and I will die of cold in my damaged hut, happy.
SONG OF THE AUTUMN WIND AND THE STRAW HUT
An autumn wind ripped clear
Three layers of thatch from my hut
Spreading it over the river,
Along the banks, into the marsh
Or driving it up into branches
Of tall trees.
Over from the south village ran
A bunch of boys, seeing me old
And feeble, stealing the thatch
In front of my eyes; hauling it
Off to their bamboo grove,
I Shouting at them until my mouth
Was dry, throat sore; then
Going inside with a sigh, leaning
On my stick; the gale stopped
But black clouds gathered
Hastening the night.
I looked at my bedding quilt, now
As cold as iron, all torn with
The restless feet of my children;
Rain streamed through the roof
Like unbroken strings of hemp
Drenching all, and I pondered on
How much sleep I had lost since
This rebellion began, hoping
The night would pass swiftly,
Wondering in my dream whether
It would be possible to build
An immense house with thousands
Of rooms, where all who needed
Could take welcome shelter; a mansion
As solid as a hill, not fearing
Wind or rain; then thinking how
If only such could be,
Would I be content to see my poor hut
Demolished with I myself
Frozen to death.
[Bai Juyi i la seva túnica]
EL CREPÚSCULO
Han vuelto a los establos ovejas y vacas.
Todos han cerrado sus puertas de leño.
Brisa. Luna. Noche plateada.
Ríos y montañas pintorescos, mas ajenos.
El sosegado arroyo murmura entre las peñas.
El rocío perla las hierbas de otoño.
La luz del candil baña mi blanca cabeza.
¿Por qué parpadea con tanto gozo?
IMPROVISACIÓN
La luna, en el río,
por poco la alcanzo
con mi mano.
El farol del mástil
brilla solitario
a media noche.
Silenciosas,
las garzas pernoctan
sobre las arenas.
Detrás de la barca,
los peces, ruidosos,
saltan en el agua.
ON SEEING THE SWORD DANCE OF A PUPIL OF MADAME GONGSUN
In the second year of the Da Li period, the tenth month, the nineteenth day, at the home of Yuan Chi, magistrate of Kuizhou, I saw the girl Li the Twelfth from Linying do a sword dance. She was so good that I asked her who was her teacher, and she told me that she was taught by Gongsun the First, who I saw in the third year of Kai Yuan do both the Sword Dance and the Felt Cap Dance at Yancheng. Gongsun did her dance with strength and freedom. In the beginning of Xuan Zong’s period, Gongsun was the best of the two schools Pear Garden and Spring Court. Her beauty faded as my white bairs grew, and now even her student does not look young. I saw how the movements of teacher and pupil were the same. This thing I have seen has caused me to write a poem. Once Zhang Xu of Wu, a calligrapher, saw Gongsun doing the West River Sword Dance at Ye, and afterwards his writing improved vastly, showing both strength and rbythm.
Once there was a beauty called
Gongsun whose Sword Dance
Was loved by all; row on row
The audience looked spellbound at her,
Feeling as they were seeing heaven
Struggling against the earth;
She bent back and it seemed
There came the suns shot out by Yi;
When she rose in the air it was
As if there were gods astride
Dragons in the clouds; watching her
One could see thunder, lightning,
Storm, then quiet rays over
A peaceful sea; but soon her
Loveliness was heard of no more;
Now her art is carried on but
By this beauty of Linying in far
Kuizhou, where she dances and sings;
Talking with her I think of
Other days, and am filled with sadness;
In the old court were eight
Thousand ladies, and of them Gongsun
Led in the Sword Dance;
This fifty years have passed
Like the turning of a hand
And the old court has been
Submerged under the waves of war;
Pear Garden dancers have vanished
Like the mist, and now but
The beauty of this one shines
In the chill sunlight; trees
By the imperial graves have
Grown high; grasses in this old city
By the Qutang Gorge have faded;
Feasting, music and song have ended;
After-pleasure comes the sadness
Of watching the moon in the east;
Just an old man like me, not knowing
Where he goes, but simply pushing
Unwilling legs up lonely hills.