#li po

[mournfulroses]

Li Po, from a poem titled "Waiting for Wine that Does Not Come," featured in The Collected Poems of Li Po

[shy-girl04]

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The birds have vanished into the sky,

and now the last cloud drains away.

We sit together, the mountain and me,

until only the mountain remains.

Li Po 李白, translated by Sam Hamill

[dabiconcordia]

Drinking Alone in the Moonlight Beneath the blossoms with a pot of wine, No friends at hand, so I poured alone; I raised my cup to invite the moon, Turned to my shadow, and we became three. Now the moon had never learned about drinking, And my shadow had merely followed my form, But I quickly made friends with the moon and my shadow; To find pleasure in life, make the most of the spring. Whenever I sang, the moon swayed with me; Whenever I danced, my shadow went wild. Drinking, we shared our enjoyment together; Drunk, then each went off on his own. But forever agreed on dispassionate revels, We promised to meet in the far Milky Way. by Li Po

[trailofleaves]

Li Po Overnight with a Friend

To bathe, to let float away the griefs of a thousand ages, and then to drown in a hundred jugs of wine.

A pretty night, perfect for talk, for philosophy and a moon so bright. What sort of man could sleep?

Finally, finally really drunk, we slept in the open, on the mountainside, Heaven and Earth, our covers, our pillows.

[majestativa]

I had pretended to be priest, centaur, Strazdas, Jesus Christ, Lithuania’s greatest poet, all people and all birds. Charon, demiurge, playing with shells in the Baltic. A mortal, caressing Dido in the ocean […] Cassandra, prophesying death. Picasso, splitting bones. Mad Hölderlin, hungry only for silence. Li Po with snow-covered flags of ancient China. A raven, white, gathering nettles. All the semblances, God, that you told me to take. Now I want to be myself. […] Dying and resurrecting. So I can live.

— SIGITAS GEDA ⚜️ Four Poets of Lithuania: Vytautas P. Bložė, Sigitas Geda, Nijolė Miliauskaitė, Kornelijus Platelis, Ed. & transl. by Jonas Zdanys, (1995)

[suenosyfantasmas]

LI Bai (Li Po). Poeta chino, (701 - 762). Dinastía Tang, (618 - 907). Máximo poeta de la historia literaria de China.

BEBIENDO SOLO A LA LUZ DE LA LUNA.

(Fragmento).

Entre las flores, un tazón de vino

bebo solo, ningún amigo está cerca.

Levanto mi copa, invito a la luna

y a mi sombra, y ahora somos tres.

Mas la luna nada sabe de bebidas

y mi sombra se limita a imitarme,

pero así y todo, luna y sombra serán mi compañía.

Fuente: Wordpress.com

Creacion digital: Seyfert Art. Arte digital.

Sueños y fantasmas. El arte de soñar.

[arorazip]

You ask why I make my home in the mountain forest, and I smile, and am silent, and even my soul remains quiet: it lives in the other world which no one owns. The peach trees blossom, The water flows. Li Po

My thoughts on this .. The mountains, the river and nature .. they all depict a silent cacophony of birth and death, of blossoming and shedding, of flowing and ceasing.. Each the very other.. I am everywhere yet nowhere, I am everything yet nothing.. A lot of this is quite similar to the writings in our Indian scriptures.. especially in the various discourses between Krsna and Arjun…

Li Po (also transliterated as Li Pai or Li Bai) was raised in Szechwan in western China. He traveled widely throughout China in his life.

Li Po’s poetry is particularly known for its elegance. It suggests a certain serene poise in relationship to the world and the quiet mind observing it. 

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[contremineur]

There is the watery, uneasy feeling, that one has been there before, has encountered that reservoir of emotion, some other year, under one’s fingertips if one could only remember when and where; and how often of late I find myself seeking it in the utterly useless as if I were, as I sometimes feel myself to be, the ancient Chinese poet gazing at the moon’s reflection and longing for comrades of old from the other side of the mountains. Having been or having thought myself to be committed to the useful, I now find myself wandering into patches of sunlight for no reason but to be there, looking down for long stretches at the arrangements of moss on stone, floating on my back in a pond looking up at clouds. Uselessness is the purview of the very young and very old whose gift is the finding out of these reservoirs—even time falls off the edges, unrelated to anything and especially not to you.

Martha Ronk, Li Po

via here