“Life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced.” – Søren Kierkegaard
life is a terminal illness with a bad prognosis. – Carl Jung
Life is lived in a forward direction but only understood backward
sergei yesenin (1895-1925) “bitter tears” of the “evening silence”, translated by Anton Yalovlev, The Last Poet of the Village.
In this world you can search for everything, except Love and death. They find you when the time comes. another long poem Is it my fault that I’m a poet Of heavy suffering and bitter fate? After all, it wasn’t my choice— It’s just the way I came into the world. Is it my fault that I don’t cherish life, That I love and simultaneously hate everyone, And know things about myself I don’t yet see— That is my gift from the muse. I know there is no happiness in life, Life is lunacy, the dream of a sick soul, And I know my gloomy tunes bore everyone, But it’s not my fault—that’s the kind of poet I am. I will not lie to myself, Woe has settled in my misty heart. Why am I known as a charlatan? Why am I known as a brawler? I’m not a villain. I haven’t robbed anyone in the forest. I haven’t shot wretches in dungeons. I’m merely a street rake Smiling at passing faces. I’m a mischievous Moscow playboy. In Tver, every neighborhood dog Recognizes my breezy gait In the backstreets. Every bedraggled horse Nods its head to greet me. I’m a good friend to the animals, Healing them with my verses. My top hat is not to impress the women. My heart can’t bear meaningless passion. It makes it easier, soothing my sadness, To give gold oats to a mare. I have no friends among people. I’m loyal to a different kingdom. I’m ready to put my best tie On the neck of any local hound. Now I won’t hurt any longer. Swamp is drained in my murky heart. This is why I’m known as a charlatan. This is why I’m known as a brawler. The rude are destined for joy; The tender are destined for sadness. I pity nothing; I pity no one. I pity myself a bit; I pity stray dogs. This path has led me straight To a tavern. Why are you yelling, you devils? Am I not my country’s son? Everyone here has pawned His pants for a drink. Hazy eyed, I look out the window; My heart is heavy and hot. The street in front of me, Wet from sunlight, rolls on. There is a boy in the street. The air is fried and dry. The boy is so contented And picks his nose. Go right ahead, my dear, Get your whole finger in there, Just don’t burrow into your soul With the same force. I’m toast… My courage is failing… Look at my host of bottles! I collect corks to plug The holes in my soul. two poems by W.S.Merwin Separation BY W. S. MERWIN Your absence has gone through me Like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color. the second one Rain Light By W.S. Merwin All day the stars watch from long ago my mother said I am going now when you are alone you will be all right whether or not you know you will know look at the old house in the dawn rain all the flowers are forms of water the sun reminds them through a white cloud touches the patchwork spread on the hill the washed colors of the afterlife that lived there long before you were born see how they wake without a question even though the whole world is burning 苏轼《西江月 平山堂》 三过平山堂下，半生弹指声中。 十年不见老仙翁，壁上龙蛇飞动。 欲吊文章太守，仍歌杨柳春风。 休言万事转头空，未转头时皆梦。 平山堂位于扬州西北的大明寺侧，乃欧阳修于公元1048年（庆历八年）知扬州时所建。欧阳修是苏轼的恩师。 Marcel Prouse I seemed to see that this life that we live in half-darkness can be illumined, this life that at every moment we distort can be restored to its true pristine shape, that a life, in short, can be realised within the confines of a book!
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