在整理照片,發現去年真是拍過太多海了,每次看海的時候心情都很不一樣。在看《情人》的時候又看到這麼一句,「大海是無形的,無可比擬的,簡單極了。」很喜歡,所以提了這個問題。


1,遇見你這麼美好的事情,就像森林聽見風聲,像夏天相配西瓜,像海洋容納藍色。

2,未來想住在海邊,風大的城市總是有許多好處,比如可以很快吹乾眼淚,比如堵住我的嘴說不出分手,比如把討厭的人吹到喜馬拉雅山,再也不要相見。

3,如果有時間,你一定要去看海,有人陪最好,沒人陪也無所謂。聽聽歌,拍拍照,找個地方坐下來,等海浪捲走你的焦躁。

4,海和你都有治癒壞心情的超能力,海可以治癒心情 而你可以治癒一切。

5.自帶濾鏡的夏,海是可觸碰的藍天。

6,人間忽晚,山河已秋,候鳥南飛,萬河歸海 ,我希望你是為我而來。

7,我喜歡大海的乾淨,可我生來就在離海最遠的城市。

8,海邊有風浪,心中有晴天。

9,不趕什麼浪潮,也不搭什麼船,我自己有海。

10,我看過太多太美的風景,如同伊甸般的仙境。而大海太平太靜,有多少故事無人傾聽。

11,往心裡裝一片海,,再裝一些少女心和愛。

12,一起吹過海風的人大概會記得久一些。

13,溫柔的藍色潮汐,告訴我沒有關係。

14,每一座孤島,都被深海緊緊擁抱。

15,「你知道大海為什麼是藍色的嗎?」

「因為海里有魚。」

「魚會吐泡泡!」

「布魯布魯,blue blue!」

16,「我們志在星辰大海,無需為蜉蝣駐足」

17.也許有人到達不了彼岸,但是我們共同擁有過大海。

18,當陽光照在海面上,

我在思念你,

當朦朧月色灑在泉水裡,

我在思念你。

19,並不是所有魚都活在同一片海,,我要游到人海里去了。

20,「我喜歡星辰大海喜歡落日夕陽,那天太陽落山時,我喜歡的事物有了著落,當然還有那天夜晚悄悄親吻我的你」


我們如海鷗之與波濤相遇似地,遇見了,走近了。海鷗飛去,波濤滾滾地流開,我們也分別了。

Like the meeting of the seagulls and the waves we meet and come near.

The seagulls fly off, the waves roll away and we depart.

泰戈爾


謝邀。以下來自於德瑞克沃爾科特的詩句。


寺山修司的的《寺山修司少女詩集》裏,有一章就叫做海,這裡直接複製粘貼過來一些。

《一個短篇的抒情詩》

眼淚是人可以做出來的一小塊海水。

在月夜的海上,放了一張信紙上去。

被月亮的光線所照耀,

信紙會變成藍色嗎?

人們稱為魚的東西,

都是某人放下的信紙。

你,知道嗎? 海的起源,那是女人的一滴眼淚。 那眼淚,為何無法停止地將地球浸濕了?沒有一本科學書瞭解,只有我一個人知道。

另外,戴望舒翻譯的加西亞·洛爾迦的一首《水呀,你到哪兒去?》

如下:

水呀你到哪兒去?

我順著河流,

一路笑到海邊去。

海呀你到哪裡去?

我向上面的河流

找個地方歇腳去。

赤楊啊,你呢,你做甚麼?

我對你甚麼話也沒有,

我呀。。。我顫抖!

我要甚麼,我不要甚麼,

問河去還是問海去?

四隻沒有方向的鳥兒,

在高高的赤楊樹上。)

祖傳分割線-——————————

更新一首吧,最近讀到的,戈麥的《大海》

我沒有閱讀過大海的書稿

在夢裡 我翻看著毫洋各招待晦暗的筆記

我沒有遇見大海的時辰

海水的星星掩著面孔從睡夢中飛過我沒有探聽過的那一個國度裏的業績當心靈的潮水洶湧彙集 明月當空夜晚走回戀人的身邊在你神祕的岸邊徐步逡巡大海 我沒有締聽過你洪亮的濤聲那飛躍萬代的紅銅我沒有見過你絲綢般浩淼的面孔山一樣、聳立的波浪可是 當我生命的晦冥時刻到來的時候我來到你的近旁黃沙掠走陽光 烏雲滾過大地那是我不明不暗的前生 它早已到達


這些:

The river is within us,

the sea is all about us;

The sea is the lands edge also,

the granite

Into which it reaches,

the beaches where it tosses

Its hints of earlier and other creation:

The starfish,

the horseshoe crab,

the whales backbone;

The pools where it offers to our curiosity

The more delicate algae

and the sea anemone.

It tosses up our losses, the torn seine,The shattered lobsterpot, the broken oarAnd the gear of foreign dead men. The sea has many voices,Many gods and many voices. The salt is on the briar rose,

The fog is in the fir trees.

The sea howlAnd the sea yelp,

are different voices

Often together heard: the whine in the rigging,

The menace

and caress

of wave that breaks on water,

The distant rote in the granite teeth,

And the wailing warning from the approaching headlandAre all sea voices, and the heaving groanerRounded homewards,

and the seagull:

And under the oppression of the silent fogThe tolling bellMeasures time not our time, rung by the unhurriedGround swell,

a time

Older than the time of chronometers,

older

Than time counted by anxious worried womenLying awake, calculating the future,Trying to unweave, unwind, unravelAnd piece together the past and the future,Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception,The future futureless, before the morning watchWhen time stops and time is never ending;And the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning,ClangsThe bell.

II

Where is there an end of it, the soundless wailing,

The silent withering of autumn flowersDropping their petals and remaining motionless;Where is there an end to the drifting wreckage,The prayer of the bone on the beach, the unprayablePrayer at the calamitous annunciation?

There is no end, but addition: the trailing

Consequence of further days and hours,While emotion takes to itself the emotionlessYears of living among the breakageOf what was believed in as the most reliable—And therefore the fittest for renunciation.

There is the final addition, the failing

Pride or resentment at failing powers,The unattached devotion which might pass for devotionless,In a drifting boat with a slow leakage,

The silent listening to the undeniableClamour of the bell of the last annunciation.

Where is the end of them, the fishermen sailing

Into the winds tail, where the fog cowers?We cannot think of a time that is oceanlessOr of an ocean not littered with wastageOr of a future that is not liableLike the past, to have no destination.

We have to think of them as forever bailing,

Setting and hauling, while the North East lowersOver shallow banks unchanging and erosionlessOr drawing their money, drying sails at dockage;Not as making a trip that will be unpayableFor a haul that will not bear examination.

There is no end of it, the voiceless wailing,

No end to the withering of withered flowers,To the movement of pain that is painless and motionless,To the drift of the sea and the drifting wreckage,The bones prayer to Death its God. Only the hardly, barely prayablePrayer of the one Annunciation.

It seems, as one becomes older,

That the past has another pattern, and ceases to be a mere sequence—Or even development: the latter a partial fallacyEncouraged by superficial notions of evolution,Which becomes, in the popular mind, a means of disowning the past.The moments of happiness—not the sense of well-being,Fruition, fulfilment, security or affection,Or even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination—We had the experience but missed the meaning,And approach to the meaning restores the experienceIn a different form, beyond any meaningWe can assign to happiness. I have said beforeThat the past experience revived in the meaningIs not the experience of one life onlyBut of many generations—not forgettingSomething that is probably quite ineffable:The backward look behind the assuranceOf recorded history, the backward half-lookOver the shoulder, towards the primitive terror.Now, we come to discover that the moments of agony(Whether, or not, due to misunderstanding,Having hoped for the wrong things or dreaded the wrong things,Is not in question) are likewise permanentWith such permanence as time has. We appreciate this betterIn the agony of others, nearly experienced,Involving ourselves, than in our own.For our own past is covered by the currents of action,But the torment of others remains an experienceUnqualified, unworn by subsequent attrition.People change, and smile: but the agony abides.Time the destroyer is time the preserver,Like the river with its cargo of dead negroes, cows and chicken coops,The bitter apple, and the bite in the apple.And the ragged rock in the restless waters,Waves wash over it, fogs conceal it;On a halcyon day it is merely a monument,In navigable weather it is always a seamarkTo lay a course by: but in the sombre seasonOr the sudden fury, is what it always was.

III

I sometimes wonder if that is what Krishna meant—

Among other things—or one way of putting the same thing:That the future is a faded song, a Royal Rose or a lavender sprayOf wistful regret for those who are not yet here to regret,Pressed between yellow leaves of a book that has never been opened.And the way up is the way down, the way forward is the way back.You cannot face it steadily, but this thing is sure,That time is no healer: the patient is no longer here.When the train starts, and the passengers are settledTo fruit, periodicals and business letters(And those who saw them off have left the platform)Their faces relax from grief into relief,To the sleepy rhythm of a hundred hours.Fare forward, travellers! not escaping from the pastInto different lives, or into any future;You are not the same people who left that stationOr who will arrive at any terminus,While the narrowing rails slide together behind you;And on the deck of the drumming linerWatching the furrow that widens behind you,You shall not think the past is finishedOr the future is before us.At nightfall, in the rigging and the aerial,Is a voice descanting (though not to the ear,The murmuring shell of time, and not in any language)Fare forward, you who think that you are voyaging;You are not those who saw the harbourReceding, or those who will disembark.Here between the hither and the farther shoreWhile time is withdrawn, consider the futureAnd the past with an equal mind.At the moment which is not of action or inactionYou can receive this: "on whatever sphere of beingThe mind of a man may be intentAt the time of death"—that is the one action(And the time of death is every moment)Which shall fructify in the lives of others:And do not think of the fruit of action.Fare forward. O voyagers, O seamen,You who came to port, and you whose bodiesWill suffer the trial and judgement of the sea,Or whatever event, this is your real destination.So Krishna, as when he admonished ArjunaOn the field of battle. Not fare well,But fare forward, voyagers.

IV

Lady, whose shrine stands on the promontory,

Pray for all those who are in ships, thoseWhose business has to do with fish, andThose concerned with every lawful trafficAnd those who conduct them.

Repeat a prayer also on behalf of

Women who have seen their sons or husbandsSetting forth, and not returning:Figlia del tuo figlio,Queen of Heaven.

Also pray for those who were in ships, and

Ended their voyage on the sand, in the seas lipsOr in the dark throat which will not reject themOr wherever cannot reach them the sound of the sea bellsPerpetual angelus.

V

To communicate with Mars, converse with spirits,

To report the behaviour of the sea monster,Describe the horoscope, haruspicate or scry,Observe disease in signatures, evokeBiography from the wrinkles of the palmAnd tragedy from fingers; release omensBy sortilege, or tea leaves, riddle the inevitableWith playing cards, fiddle with pentagramsOr barbituric acids, or dissectThe recurrent image into pre-conscious terrors—To explore the womb, or tomb, or dreams; all these are usualPastimes and drugs, and features of the press:And always will be, some of them especiallyWhen there is distress of nations and perplexityWhether on the shores of Asia, or in the Edgware Road.Mens curiosity searches past and futureAnd clings to that dimension. But to apprehendThe point of intersection of the timelessWith time, is an occupation for the saint—No occupation either, but something givenAnd taken, in a lifetimes death in love,Ardour and selflessness and self-surrender.For most of us, there is only the unattendedMoment, the moment in and out of time,The distraction fit, lost in a shaft of sunlight,The wild thyme unseen, or the winter lightningOr the waterfall, or music heard so deeplyThat it is not heard at all, but you are the musicWhile the music lasts. These are only hints and guesses,Hints followed by guesses; and the restIs prayer, observance, discipline, thought and action.The hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is Incarnation.Here the impossible unionOf spheres of existence is actual,Here the past and futureAre conquered, and reconciled,Where action were otherwise movementOf that which is only movedAnd has in it no source of movement—Driven by daemonic, chthonicPowers. And right action is freedomFrom past and future also.For most of us, this is the aimNever here to be realised;Who are only undefeatedBecause we have gone on trying;We, content at the lastIf our temporal reversion nourish(Not too far from the yew-tree)The life of significant soil.
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