Quote of the Day
Excellence is
not a singular act, but a habit.
You are what you repeatedly do.
-Aristotle (Shaquille O'Neal)
Poem of the Day
To^i Muo^'n So^'ng Vo+'i
To^i muo^'n so^'ng vo+'i Vo~ To`ng dda? ho^?
Vo+'i Quan Va^n Tru+o+`ng ma(.t ddo? ra^u dden
Va`o li'nh ngu+. la^m cu`ng Athos la`m quen
Ba.n vo+'i D'Artagnan, Porthos va` Aramis!
To^i muo^'n to+'i Palestine, mo^` Jesus Christ
Cu`ng Ai-Van-Ho^ la`m cuo^.c Tha^.p Tu+. Chinh
So^'ng mo^.t nga`n mo^.t dde^m le? trong dinh
Du+.ng le^n bo+?i Tha^`n dde`n giu'p
A-la-DDanh cu+o+'i vo+.
Sang Cha^u My~ dda^'t ta^n ky` man ro+.
Cu`ng Jack London ddi xe cho' ti`m va`ng
To^i muo^'n sang Nga ye^'n tie^.c vo+'i Nga Hoa`ng
Tie^'p chuye^.n Andre' mo^.t chie^`u tre^n be^'n nu+o+'c
Cu`ng Petchorine giu+~a Caucase da.o bu+o+'c
DDa^'u su'ng, dda^'u gu+o+m, khie^u vu~ chan ho`a
Ga(.p Dostoi trong dde^m tra('ng pha tra`
Ma(.c tuye^'t ro+i, ngo^`i be^n a^'m Samovar
An u?i cha`ng sinh vie^n gie^'t ngu+o+`i Raskolnikov
Khuye^n Philippovna la^'y cha`ng ngo^'c hie^`n ho`a
Tie^'p tu.c ha`nh tri`nh to^i to+'i Ta^y Ban Nha
Theo Don Quichotte ddi pho` nguy cu+'u kho^?
So^'ng tho?a thue^ to^i tro+? ve^` dda^'t to^?
Va`o Lam So+n ti`m ga(.p vua Le^
Ngo^`i ca^u thuye^`n be^n
Nguye^~n Khuye^'n o+? tho^n que^
Tho+ ru+o+.u vo+'i Tu' Xu+o+ng tre^n bo+` so^ng Vi.
Ba`n vo+'i Nguye^~n Du ve^` me^.nh ta`i ddo^' ky.
Vo+'i ddo+`i Kie^`u oan kho^? ddau thu+o+ng
To+'i phu+o+`ng Kha'n Xua^n cu+o+`i vo+'i chi.
Xua^n Hu+o+ng
To+'i qua^.n Nam Xu+o+ng vie^'ng vo+. cha`ng
Tru+o+ng chung thu?y
Nghe anh cha`ng Tru+o+ng Chi nghe^. si~
Ca lo+`i ca ddau kho^? mo^.ng mo+
Theo Ba('c Bi`nh Vu+o+ng gio'ng tro^'ng mo+? co+`
Tie^'n dda'nh Tha(ng Long nu'i Nu`ng so^ng Nhi.
To^i muo^'n so^'ng tha^.t nhie^`u va` ti? mi?
Ngu+o+.c tho+`i gian li.ch su+? bao ddo+`i
Cho tho?a lo`ng ham so^'ng, anh o+i,
Bi. cha` xe'o trong co~i ddo+`i hie^.n ta.i
Co~i ddo+`i the`m ca? sa('n va` khoai!
Nguye^~n Chi' Thie^.n
Whispers--The Eve of Autumn
Whispers
are the dreams of trees
that fall away
during the eve of autumn
sun-swept are days,
hot august nights,
everything seems serene--
but the city streets
are forever burning.
Footsteps, like those
painted as stars
upon the canvas of the dawn
darken my vision,
just as the past
has darkened my forgiveness.
I cannot accept
this bitter taste in my reasoning
you, my silence surrounding,
are my sweetest sorrow.
Karin Pierson
|
