Tôi thức đêm nhặt từng chiếc lá rụng – Tống Mai

Nov 30, 2016 (TM)

Tôi thức đêm lượm những chiếc lá rụng
Từng chiếc một
Đó là những mảnh nhỏ yêu dấu.
Đó là mùa thu.
Đó là một giấc mơ.

Tống Mai
Virginia, Nov 30, 2016

O Mio Babbino Caro – Giacomo Puccini
Joshua Bell






9 thoughts on “Tôi thức đêm nhặt từng chiếc lá rụng – Tống Mai

  1. Mai ơi,
    Sáng sớm thức dậy , nhìn những hình mùa thu Mai gởi, rất đẹp và đầy chất thơ, anh Ngạc nói Mai chụp hình càng ngày càng chuyên nghiệp. Ôi cái bánh từ hôm Trung Thu mà nay sắp đến Giáng sinh rồi.
    Thăm Mai an vui.

    1. Chị Lan Anh oi,
      Chi và anh Ngạc khen hình em vui lắm.
      Em vẫn chờ bài viết Europe của chị “dù cho bao năm bao tháng lê thê”


    1. Cám ơn anh Hòa. Có một sự im lặng hùng hồn trong cách ta cảm nhận được những gì ta cho là đep,
      sự im lặng đó từ trong tâm mà ra, nó không từ trong trí nên nên đôi khi không cần sự giải thích đâu anh Hòa.

      Chiều hôm nay Mai đến một viện bảo tàng tranh ở DC, một trong những gian phòng có để một câu nói của Mark Rothko Mai rất tâm đắc:

      “If you are moved only by color relationships, you are missing the point. I am interested in expressing the big emotions – tragedy, ecstasy, doom.”

      “Nếu bạn chỉ xúc động vì màu sắc của tranh tôi thôi thì bạn đã bỏ lỡ mất một điểm lớn, bởi vì tôi chỉ muốn gởi gắm những cảm xúc lớn lao: bi kịch, niềm ngây ngất, và sự bạc mệnh.”

    1. The Last Leaf – O Henry

      “Pull it up; I want to see,” she ordered, in a whisper.

      Wearily Sue obeyed.

      But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last one on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from the branch some twenty feet above the ground.

      “It is the last one,” said Johnsy. “I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall die at the same time.”

      “Dear, dear!” said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, “think of me, if you won’t think of yourself. What would I do?”

      But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed.

      The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves.

      When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade be raised.

      The ivy leaf was still there.

      Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove.

      “I’ve been a bad girl, Sudie,” said Johnsy. “Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring a me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and – no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook.”

      And hour later she said:

      “Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples.”

      The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left.

      “Even chances,” said the doctor, taking Sue’s thin, shaking hand in his. “With good nursing you’ll win.” And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is – some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable.”

      The next day the doctor said to Sue: “She’s out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now – that’s all.”

      And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woollen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all.

      “I have something to tell you, white mouse,” she said. “Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn’t imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colours mixed on it, and – look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn’t you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it’s Behrman’s masterpiece – he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell.”

  2. Chị Mai ơi! Hình của chị chụp đẹp một cách tinh tế thanh nhã quá! Em rất thích. Cảm ơn chị Mai nhiều vì đã thức đêm nhặt từng chiếc lá rụng để cho ngày được thêm tươi.

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