“Lawrence, I been down to the hospital. Godawful mess. No shade, no room. They lying everywhere, out in the sun. They cuttin’ off arms and legs right out in the open, front of everybody, like they did at Fredericksburg. God, they ought to know better, they ought not to do that in public. Some of them people die. Man ought to have privacy at a time like that. You got to yell sometimes, you know? Lord . . .”
“Did you see Kilrain?”
Tom nodded. He sat with his back against the wall, the small stone wall this side of the dead horses, plucking grass. He sighed.
Chamberlain said, “How is he?”
“Well, Lawrence, he died.”
“Oh.” Chamberlain said. He blinked. The world came into focus. He could see leaves of the trees dark and sharp against the blue sky. He could smell the dead horses.
“He died this morning, ‘fore I got there. Couple of the boys was with him. He said to tell you goodbye and that he was sorry.”
Chamberlain nodded.
“It wasn’t the wounds. They say his heart give out.”
Chamberlain had stopped wrapping his bloody foot. Now he went on. But he could see the weary Irish face, the red-nosed leprechaun. Just one small drink, one wee pint of the cruel . . .
Tom said, “I tell you, Lawrence, I sure was fond of the man.”
“Yes,” Chamberlain said.
Tom said nothing more. He sat plucking grass. Chamberlain wrapped the foot. The moment was very quiet. He sat looking down at his bloody leg, feeling the gentle wind, the heat from the south, seeing Kilrain dead on a litter, no more the steady presence. Sometimes he believed in a Heaven, mostly he believed in a Heaven; there ought to be a Heaven for young soldiers, especially young soldiers, but just as surely for the old soldier; there ought to be more than just the metallic end, and then silence, then the worms, and sometimes he believed, mostly he believed, but just this moment he did not believe at all, knew Kilrain was dead and gone forever, that the grin had died and would not reappear, never, there was nothing beyond the sound of the guns but vast dark, the huge nothing, not even silence, just an end . . .
from remembering Phil Ochs: the here the now
these tired feet
in these thirsty boots
needing a rest
with you
to share a laugh
as the sun goes down
and later to catch
the morning in your eyes
living the moment
in the here
in the now
before rising again
tipping my hat
and going gone
After Waiting for Censor Yuan and Professor Li at Tungte Temple, When Neither Arrives, I Send Each a Poem by Wei Ying-wu
The courtyard trees are suddenly dark
why didn’t my old friend come
it must be because he hates the heat
and spends his days on a frost-covered terrace
The glory of office comes with its burdens
retired life too means less time together
I watched for you from the upper story
until the blue ridges were almost black
translated by Red Pine
worth posting again: Self-Portrait In Praise by Wang An-shih
Things aren’t other than they are.
I am today whoever I was long ago,
and if I can be described, it’s as this
perfect likeness of all these things.
translated by David Hinton
Untitled Poem by T’ao Ch’ien
Days and months never take their time.
The four seasons keep bustling each other
away. Cold winds churn lifeless branches.
Fallen leaves cover long paths. We’re frail,
crumbling more with each turning year.
Our temples turn white early, and once
your hair flaunts that bleached streamer,
the road ahead starts closing steadily in.
This house is an inn awaiting travelers,
and I yet another guest leaving. All this
leaving and leaving—where will I ever
end up? My old home’s on South Mountain.
translated by David Hinton
following a lead from Li Po: sad flight
it hovers briefly
before taking off
this spirit
with damaged wings
in sad flight
making its way
home
to you
using a line from Wei Ying-wu: floating clouds
like floating clouds
across the vast heavens
we drift
together
then apart
life’s endless cycle
here on planet earth
Happily Meeting an Old Friend from Liangchuan on the Huai by Wei Ying-wu
When we were both guests in Chianghan
whenever we met we left drunk
we’ve been drifting clouds ever since
following rivers ten years now
the happiness we feel is the same
though our hair has thinned and turned gray
why haven’t we gone home
and left these autumn hills on the Huai
translated by Red Pine
Climbing a Tower: To Councillor Wang by Wei Ying-wu
I hate climbing mountains and towers without you
the clouds and sea of Ch’u and memories never end
the sound of mallets at the foot of leafless hills
in a perfecture of brambles and winter rain
translated by Red Pine
Farewell by Yü Hsüan-chi
All those tender nights upstairs in the capital, hearts content
together—I never guessed my pure-spirit love would leave.
Now, dozing and waking, I don’t mention drifting clouds gone
who knows where. The lamp burns low. A wild moth flutters.
translated by David Hinton
