{"id":3100,"date":"2023-10-08T10:08:35","date_gmt":"2023-10-08T10:08:35","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/meumon.synology.me\/museu\/?p=3100"},"modified":"2024-12-22T11:58:41","modified_gmt":"2024-12-22T11:58:41","slug":"la-bona-pluja-du-fu","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/meumon.synology.me\/museu\/la-bona-pluja-du-fu\/","title":{"rendered":"Du Fu. Poesia"},"content":{"rendered":"

Literatura xinesa<\/a>\u00a0Tang<\/a><\/p>\n

[llegit a les tardes d’estiu de 2024, fresc a la banyera a la terrassa]<\/p>\n

\n

LA BONA PLUJA D’UNA NIT DE PRIMAVERA<\/strong><\/p>\n

[Maria: \u00a0(Haver estat com una pluja<\/a>)]<\/p>\n

La bona pluja sap quan \u00e9s bonic que vingui.
\nVe a l’abril per la llavor amagada;
\nla fosca tria i un ventet amic,
\ni en silenci la terra deixa tota amarada.<\/p>\n

S\u00f3n negres sobre el camp els n\u00favols en rep\u00f2s.
\nL’\u00fanica llum al riu, en una barca, brilla.
\nDem\u00e0 veurem que tot, roig i humit, s’esparpilla
\ni Txengt\u00fa somriur\u00e0, ben coberta de\u00a0flors.<\/p>\n

(Mari\u00e0 Manent)<\/p>\n

La bona pluja sap triar el seu temps:
\n\u00e9s primavera quan tot ho fa cr\u00e9ixer.
\nSeguint el vent, oculta entra en la nit.
\nCalant el m\u00f3n, cau fina i sense fressa.<\/p>\n

Camins del camp, i negres tots els n\u00favols,
\nbarques del riu i enc\u00e8s un sol fanal:
\na l’alba veus el s\u00f2l rogenc xop d’aigua
\ni amb flors pertot la Ciutat del Brocat.<\/p>\n

(Joan Ferrater)<\/p>\n

J\u00daBILO POR LA LLUVIA DE UNA NOCHE PRIMAVERAL<\/strong><\/p>\n

La benigna lluvia conoce su temporada
\ny llega justamente en primavera.
\nCon la brisa, se desliza en la noche negra.
\nY calladita, reparte frescor y caricias.<\/p>\n

Se vuelven obscuras las nubes y las sendas.
\nS\u00f3lo brilla la d\u00e9bil luz de un barco que llega.
\nEl alba nos muestra la ciudad Brocado entre flores
\nencarnadas, que, totalmente empapadas, inclinan las ramas.<\/p>\n

(Guojian Chen)<\/p>\n

Spring Night Happy About Rain<\/strong><\/p>\n

The good rain knows when to fall,
\nIt comes when spring blossoms.<\/p>\n

It steals in on the wind, submerged in night,
\nmoistening all things gently without sound.<\/p>\n

Black wilderness, black paths, black clouds;
\nonly a torch on a riverboat sparks.<\/p>\n

At dawn I see all things red and wet,
\nand flowers drown the City of Brocade. [ChengDu]<\/p>\n

(Barnstone)<\/p>\n

GOOD RAIN ON A SPRING NIGHT<\/strong><\/p>\n

A good rain falling
\nJust when it should
\nIn springtime; riding
\nOn the wind it fills
\nA whole night, soaking
\nThe land with its goodness;
\nClouds hang heavily over
\nCountry paths; a lone light
\nShines from a passing boat;
\nMorning and I see a damp
\nRedness on the branches,
\nLaden down with flowers.<\/p>\n

(Antologia biling\u00fce)<\/p>\n

\n

EL POETA SOMNIA<\/strong><\/p>\n

Que trista cau la pluja! Diguem ara:
\nel cel plora el temps clar. L’avorriment,
\ncom un n\u00favol feixuc, ens aclapara.
\nOn s\u00f3n joia i enginy? Seurem, lluny del rellent.<\/p>\n

Fem versos que recordin l’estiu. Damunt la fulla
\nhaurem de dibuixar-los suaument
\ncom les flors ben obertes que als arbres pren el vent.
\nCada cop que el pinzell la tinta mulla,
\nbec el vi de l’estiu en glop ardent.
\nAix\u00ed no em volaria
\ncom els n\u00favols i el fum el pensament,
\ncar el temps, amor meva, se’ns esmuny cada dia,
\nm\u00e9s lleuger que un vol d’\u00e0necs a ponent.<\/p>\n

\n

LA PLUGETA<\/strong><\/p>\n

Quin seny tan fi, plugeta lleu! Ja la llavor t’espera;
\ndus al quint\u00e0 cremat de sol frescors de primavera.
\nVas n\u00e9ixer fosa al cor del vent, alguna nit estranya:
\nels solcs s’amaren del teu plor, i \u00e9s verda la muntanya.<\/p>\n

Ahir molts n\u00favols abrandats pel cel feien corrua,
\ni cada llum dels mariners era una estrella nua.
\nAvui tot s\u00f3n colors frescals i papallons i merles:
\nai, quina olor, jard\u00ed del Rei, brodat amb tantes perles!<\/p>\n

(mmad)<\/p>\n

\n

Song of a Thatched Hut Damaged in Autumn Wind<\/strong><\/p>\n

Wind howled angrily in high autumn’s September
\nand tore off three layers of reed from my thatched roof.
\nThe reeds flew over the river and scattered on the bank.
\nSome flew high and hung from the trees.
\nSome flew low and swirled and sank into pools.
\nThe kids from the southern village took advantage of my old age,
\nplayed pirate and stole my reeds while I watched them
\nopenly carrying armfuls into the bamboo groves.
\nMy lips cracked, my throat dried, and I couldn’t yell out.
\nI returned home and leaned on my stick, sighing.
\nIn a moment the wind stopped and clouds stood ink black,
\nthe autumnal sky stretched into darkness in desert silence.
\nMy cotton quilt is tattered from use and cold as iron.
\nIn an ugly dream, my small son rips the lining with his feet.
\nThe roof is leaking by my bed’s headboard and nowhere is dry.
\nThe rain like yarn spins down forever.
\nI’ve had little sleep since the An Lushan Rebellion.
\nSuch a wet and long night, when will it end!
\nI wish I had a house with thousands of rooms
\nto shelter all the cold people under the sky and give them happy faces.
\nWe’d be calm as mountains when it stormed and rained.
\nOh, let this big house appear before my eyes
\nand I will die of cold in my damaged hut, happy.<\/p>\n

SONG OF THE AUTUMN WIND AND THE STRAW HUT<\/strong><\/p>\n

An autumn wind ripped clear
\nThree layers of thatch from my hut
\nSpreading it over the river,
\nAlong the banks, into the marsh
\nOr driving it up into branches
\nOf tall trees.
\nOver from the south village ran
\nA bunch of boys, seeing me old
\nAnd feeble, stealing the thatch
\nIn front of my eyes; hauling it
\nOff to their bamboo grove,
\nI Shouting at them until my mouth
\nWas dry, throat sore; then
\nGoing inside with a sigh, leaning
\nOn my stick; the gale stopped
\nBut black clouds gathered
\nHastening the night.
\nI looked at my bedding quilt, now
\nAs cold as iron, all torn with
\nThe restless feet of my children;
\nRain streamed through the roof
\nLike unbroken strings of hemp
\nDrenching all, and I pondered on
\nHow much sleep I had lost since
\nThis rebellion began, hoping
\nThe night would pass swiftly,
\nWondering in my dream whether
\nIt would be possible to build
\nAn immense house with thousands
\nOf rooms, where all who needed
\nCould take welcome shelter; a mansion
\nAs solid as a hill, not fearing
\nWind or rain; then thinking how
\nIf only such could be,
\nWould I be content to see my poor hut
\nDemolished with I myself
\nFrozen to death.<\/p>\n

[Bai Juyi i la seva t\u00fanica]<\/p>\n

\n

EL CREP\u00daSCULO<\/strong><\/p>\n

Han vuelto a los establos ovejas y vacas.
\nTodos han cerrado sus puertas de le\u00f1o.
\nBrisa. Luna. Noche plateada.
\nR\u00edos y monta\u00f1as pintorescos, mas ajenos.
\nEl sosegado arroyo murmura entre las pe\u00f1as.
\nEl roc\u00edo perla las hierbas de oto\u00f1o.
\nLa luz del candil ba\u00f1a mi blanca cabeza.
\n\u00bfPor qu\u00e9 parpadea con tanto gozo?<\/p>\n

\n

IMPROVISACI\u00d3N<\/strong><\/p>\n

La luna, en el r\u00edo,
\npor poco la alcanzo
\ncon mi mano.
\nEl farol del m\u00e1stil
\nbrilla solitario
\na media noche.
\nSilenciosas,
\nlas garzas pernoctan
\nsobre las arenas.
\nDetr\u00e1s de la barca,
\nlos peces, ruidosos,
\nsaltan en el agua.<\/p>\n

\n

ON SEEING THE SWORD DANCE OF A PUPIL OF MADAME GONGSUN<\/strong><\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

Once there was a beauty called
\nGongsun whose Sword Dance
\nWas loved by all; row on row
\nThe audience looked spellbound at her,
\nFeeling as they were seeing heaven
\nStruggling against the earth;
\nShe bent back and it seemed
\nThere came the suns shot out by Yi;
\nWhen she rose in the air it was
\nAs if there were gods astride
\nDragons in the clouds; watching her
\nOne could see thunder, lightning,
\nStorm, then quiet rays over
\nA peaceful sea; but soon her
\nLoveliness was heard of no more;
\nNow her art is carried on but
\nBy this beauty of Linying in far
\nKuizhou, where she dances and sings;
\nTalking with her I think of
\nOther days, and am filled with sadness;
\nIn the old court were eight
\nThousand ladies, and of them Gongsun
\nLed in the Sword Dance;
\nThis fifty years have passed
\nLike the turning of a hand
\nAnd the old court has been
\nSubmerged under the waves of war;
\nPear Garden dancers have vanished
\nLike the mist, and now but
\nThe beauty of this one shines
\nIn the chill sunlight; trees
\nBy the imperial graves have
\nGrown high; grasses in this old city
\nBy the Qutang Gorge have faded;
\nFeasting, music and song have ended;
\nAfter-pleasure comes the sadness
\nOf watching the moon in the east;
\nJust an old man like me, not knowing<\/strong><\/span>
\nWhere he goes, but simply pushing<\/strong><\/span>
\nUnwilling legs up lonely hills.<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Literatura xinesa\u00a0Tang [llegit a les tardes d’estiu de 2024, fresc a la banyera a la terrassa] LA BONA PLUJA D’UNA NIT DE PRIMAVERA [Maria: \u00a0(Haver estat com una pluja)] La bona pluja sap quan \u00e9s bonic que vingui. Ve a l’abril per la llavor amagada; la fosca tria i un ventet amic, i en silenci … <\/p>\n

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