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The cat collides with the poet's soul

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The cat collides with the poet's soul

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The cat collides with the poet's soul
The cat collides with the poet's soul

I

cat

| Charles Baudelaire

Translated by Guo Hong'an

Serious scholars, and passionate couples,

The same preference is in its ripe season

Strong and gentle cat, the pride of the family,

Fearing the cold like them, Jane is deeply reclusive.

They are companions of science and lust,

Looking for the quiet, but also for the fear of the night;

Darkness will be used as a gloomy mount,

If only they could drive pride away.

They meditate, that noble gesture

Like a big sphinx lying in a secluded place,

As if sleeping in an endless dream;

A magical light shines around the plump waist,

Pieces of gold, and fine grains of sand

And the mysterious eyes flashed a hazy starlight.

Black cat

Wen | Rilke

Translated by Midorihara

A ghost is more like your gaze

A part of the site that hits it with a bang;

But on this piece of black fur

Your most determined gaze will also fade:

It's like a raging rage

Like thunder suddenly turning sharply,

Anger hit the cell

Above the soft walls and evaporates due to exhaustion.

It seems to want to turn the crowd that has been thrown at it

The gaze is hidden in itself,

So that burnout carries sinister

It makes people creepy and then goes to sleep.

But suddenly it was like being woken up

Turn your face to your face:

So you inadvertently re-enter it

Round eyes in yellow amber

Meet your own gaze: be locked up inside

Like an extinct insect.

Wen | Tsvetaeva

Translated by Wang Jiaxin

They come to our place to visit

It's just that when our eyes no longer hurt,

Let the pain appear,—— they don't stay:

The cat's heart is not ashamed!

It's funny, poet, you wouldn't say that.

How difficult it is for us to tame them.

They do not act as slaves:

The cat's heart will not obey!

We can't tempt them to become quieter.

It's not a question of how to feed them.

In the blink of an eye – they have escaped:

The cat's heart does not contain love!

The cat collides with the poet's soul

II

To a cat

Bon | Borges

Translated by Hayashi No ki

The mirror is not more silent and quiet,

The flickering morning light is not difficult to find;

In the moonlight, you are like the leopard,

We can only see your form from a distance.

Constrained by the inexplicable heavenly rules,

We can only look for you in vain;

You are far more distant than the Ganges and the Rainbow,

You are destined to be lonely, destined to be mysterious.

Your spine can be gently touched by my hand.

Long ago, from that time when there was no way to remember,

You accept my true love and mercy.

You live, but you belong to another era.

You are the master of a dream-like closed world.

Cats and moonlight

Wen | Yeats

Cats wander around

The moon spirals

Close relatives of the month

This lurking cat, looking up

The black Minnaloushe gazed at the month

Wander as you please, sigh

The cold moonlight in the sky

Disturbing its wild blood

Minnaloushe ran on the grass

Lift its dexterous claws

Dancing, Minnaloushe, dancing?

When you meet the moon

What could be better than an invitation to dance?

Maybe months

Tired of the glitz of the court

Learned a new spinning dance

Minnaloushe played in the grass

Where the moonlight shines, here, there

Overhead, a holy moon

Constantly changing the phases of the moon

Does Minnaloushe know?

Its pupils also change in this way

From the lack of round

Missing from the circle

Minnaloushe sneaked in the meadows

Lonely, reserved, cunning

Facing the changing moon in the sky

Lift its changing eyes

To Mrs. Reynolds's cat

Wen | Keats

Cats! Now that you are no longer beautiful,

When the wind is flourishing, how many rats have you put

Turned into a plate of Chinese food? How many cheese crumbs have been stolen?

You stare at the clear green eyes, lazily, erect,

Velvety ears – please don't be sudden

Show your claws and scratch me— please

Meow softly— tell me about your glorious achievements,

Tell us how you catch fish, catch rats, and fight chicks.

No, don't bow your head, don't lick your delicate wrists

Even though you have asthma — though

The tip of your tail has long been polished bare—

You have been beaten by countless young girls and little pink fists,

Your fur is still smooth as silk,

It's no different from being at the top of the list.

The cat collides with the poet's soul

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