丹丹大公鸡™

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一个用英文创作剧本，疯狂收集剧本的Wall-E(伪)电影人　ღ

著名电影"刮痧"制片人/编剧马克 白尔斯(Mark Byers)的中方合作伙伴与亲授编剧弟子. 有好的电影故事,急需剧本创作,剧本西化,以及项目融资的朋友请联系我.

非诚勿扰!

目前正在参与的项目有北京彼岸天文化有限公司的动画神话电影"大.海",以及将由著名导演黄健中执导的,预计冲击2010年奥斯卡外语片奖项的历史史诗性宏篇巨制--"倾城记.西施与王".

另, 需要珍稀英文剧本的朋友也可以联系我,本处剧本多多, 几乎涵盖所有经典非经典,大制作小制作,爱情动作悬疑战争伦理剧情...genre无所不包. 如有需求,价格详议.

现才正式拉开幕布:

鸡叫一声撅一撅，鸡叫两声撅两撅。
三声唤出扶桑日，扫遍残星与晓月！ －－朱元璋先生

又有：

雄鸡一唱天下白！（李贺）
飞来峰上千寻塔，闻道鸡鸣见日升！（王安石）
狗吠深巷中，鸡鸣桑树颠 （陶渊明《归园田居》）
半壁见海日，空中闻天鸡 （李白《梦游天姥吟留别》）
亭上十分绿醑酒，盘中一味黄金鸡（李白）
忧怀从中来，叹息通鸡鸣。（曹子建《弃妇篇》）
两头纤纤月初生，半白半黑眼中睛。腷腷膊膊鸡初鸣，磊磊落落同曙星 （古乐府徐朝云）
杀鸡未肯邀季路，裹饭应须问子来 （苏东坡《次韵徐积》）
纪德名标五，初鸣度必三 （杜甫《鸡》）
刻木牵丝作老翁，鸡皮鹤发与真同。须臾弄罢寂无事，却似人生一梦中。 （唐梁锽《咏木老人》）
风雨如晦,鸡鸣不已。《诗经》
鸡鸣紫陌曙光寒-- 岑参《奉和中书舍人贾至早朝大明宫》
鸡声茅店月，人迹板桥霜 （温庭筠《商山早行》）

－－－－－中英边境－－－－－－－－－－－－

Cock-Crow

by Edward Thomas


OUT of the wood of thoughts that grows by night
To be cut down by the sharp ax of light,--
Out of the night, two cocks together crow,
Cleaving the darkness with a silver blow:
And brought before my eyes twin trumpeters stand,
Heralds of splendor, one at either hand,
Each facing each as in a coat of arms:--
The milkers lace their boots up at the farms.

-----------------------------------------------

The cock's clear voice

by Robert Louis Stevenson

THE cock's clear voice into the clearer air
Where westward far I roam,
Mounts with a thrill of hope,
Falls with a sigh of home.

A rural sentry, he from farm and field
The coming morn descries,
And, mankind's bugler, wakes
The camp of enterprise.

He sings the morn upon the westward hills
Strange and remote and wild;
He sings it in the land
Where once I was a child.

He brings to me dear voices of the past,
The old land and the years:
My father calls for me,
My weeping spirit hears.

Fife, fife, into the golden air, O bird,
And sing the morning in;
For the old days are past
And new days begin.

---------------------------------------------

Roosters

by Elizabeth Bishop

At four o'clock
in the gun-metal blue dark
we hear the first crow of the first cock

just below
the gun-metal blue window
and immediately there is an echo

off in the distance,
then one from the backyard fence,
then one, with horrible insistence,

grates like a wet match
from the broccoli patch,
flares,and all over town begins to catch.

Cries galore
come from the water-closet door,
from the dropping-plastered henhouse floor,

where in the blue blur
their rusting wives admire,
the roosters brace their cruel feet and glare

with stupid eyes
while from their beaks there rise
the uncontrolled, traditional cries.

Deep from protruding chests
in green-gold medals dressed,
planned to command and terrorize the rest,

the many wives
who lead hens' lives
of being courted and despised;

deep from raw throats
a senseless order floats
all over town. A rooster gloats

over our beds
from rusty irons sheds
and fences made from old bedsteads,

over our churches
where the tin rooster perches,
over our little wooden northern houses,

making sallies
from all the muddy alleys,
marking out maps like Rand McNally's:

glass-headed pins,
oil-golds and copper greens,
anthracite blues, alizarins,

each one an active
displacement in perspective;
each screaming, "This is where I live!"

Each screaming
"Get up! Stop dreaming!"
Roosters, what are you projecting?

You, whom the Greeks elected
to shoot at on a post, who struggled
when sacrificed, you whom they labeled

"Very combative..."
what right have you to give
commands and tell us how to live,

cry "Here!" and "Here!"
and wake us here where are
unwanted love, conceit and war?

The crown of red
set on your little head
is charged with all your fighting blood

Yes, that excrescence
makes a most virile presence,
plus all that vulgar beauty of iridescence

Now in mid-air
by two they fight each other.
Down comes a first flame-feather,

and one is flying,
with raging heroism defying
even the sensation of dying.

And one has fallen
but still above the town
his torn-out, bloodied feathers drift down;

and what he sung
no matter. He is flung
on the gray ash-heap, lies in dung

with his dead wives
with open, bloody eyes,
while those metallic feathers oxidize.


St. Peter's sin
was worse than that of Magdalen
whose sin was of the flesh alone;

of spirit, Peter's,
falling, beneath the flares,
among the "servants and officers."

Old holy sculpture
could set it all together
in one small scene, past and future:

Christ stands amazed,
Peter, two fingers raised
to surprised lips, both as if dazed.

But in between
a little cock is seen
carved on a dim column in the travertine,

explained by gallus canit;
flet Petrus underneath it,
There is inescapable hope, the pivot;

yes, and there Peter's tears
run down our chanticleer's
sides and gem his spurs.

Tear-encrusted thick
as a medieval relic
he waits. Poor Peter, heart-sick,

still cannot guess
those cock-a-doodles yet might bless,
his dreadful rooster come to mean forgiveness,

a new weathervane
on basilica and barn,
and that outside the Lateran

there would always be
a bronze cock on a porphyry
pillar so the people and the Pope might see

that event the Prince
of the Apostles long since
had been forgiven, and to convince

all the assembly
that "Deny deny deny"
is not all the roosters cry.

In the morning
a low light is floating
in the backyard, and gilding

from underneath
the broccoli, leaf by leaf;
how could the night have come to grief?

gilding the tiny
floating swallow's belly
and lines of pink cloud in the sky,

the day's preamble
like wandering lines in marble,
The cocks are now almost inaudible.

The sun climbs in,
following "to see the end,"
faithful as enemy, or friend.