there is the ebb
and flow
of time
and we old friend
are participants
we are young
we are old
we embrace
countless times
in greeting in farewell
leaving each time
a thousand streams
of tears
wondering when
if ever
all this coming
and going
will end
and we can finally sit
in the shade
of some distant tree
a glass of whiskey
in our hands
and time
once and for all
on our side
To Secretary Yang by Wei Ying-wu
Colleagues have scattered and gates are closed
the calling of birds fills a mountain town
our parting on the Yangtze seems so long ago
I notice the empty mat beside me
the boats on South Lake are moored because of rain
the screens at North Tower are rolled up due to wind
wine-tasting parties are canceled
I regret our time together has passed
translated by Red Pine
this seems appropriate now with the hard winter approaching: To My Cousins by Wei Ying-wu
Late last year when the capital was being looted
I sent letters by back roads to see if you survived
your answer has suddenly fallen from the sky
all we know of each other are a thousand streams of tears
translated by Red Pine
Written in Response to Court Gentleman Liu on Meeting and Parting at the South Wall on the Way Back to Yangchou on a Spring Day by Wei Ying-wu
The third month in Yangchou the city was in bloom
we met and got drunk among the flowers
we were going different directions but not very far
what the evening tide took away the morning tide brought back
translated by Red Pine
On Encountering Evening Rain While Seeing Off Li Wei by Wei Ying-wu
River of Ch’u in light rain
evening bells of Chienyeh
rows of sails spreading out
birds disappearing slowly
Ocean Gate too far to see
riverside trees a distant green
there’s no end to goodbye
a pair of silk streams soak my sleeves
translated by Red Pine
from Michael Shaara’s Pulitzer Prize winning novel about the Battle of Gettysburg: Killer Angels
“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
