Our Spaniard yawns.
Is it from hunger? Sleepiness? Boredom?
Doctor, could it be an empty stomach?
“The emptiness is, rather, in his head.”
translated by Mary G. Berg & Dennis Maloney
proverb XLIX by Antonio Machado
I notice, in passing, that I’m growing old,
that the immense mirror
where I gazed so proudly one day
holds a quicksilver image of myself.
In the mirror in the depths of my house,
Fate’s hand
scratches the quicksilver away, and everything passes
through it like light through glass.
translated by Mary G. Berg & Dennis Maloney
proverb XLVL by Antonio Machado
Last night I dreamed I heard
God shout to me: Watch out!
Later it was God who was sleeping,
and I screamed back: Wake up!
translated by Mary G. Berg & Dennis Maloney
proverb XXXVII by Antonio Machado
You say nothing is created?
It doesn’t matter; with the clay
of the earth, make a cup
so your brother can drink.
translated by Mary G. Berg & Dennis Maloney
proverb XXXVI by Antonia Machado
Empirical faith. We neither are nor will be.
All our life is on loan.
We brought nothing; we will take nothing away.
translated by Mary G. Berg & Dennis Maloney
Early Spring, Kuei Year of the Hare, Thinking of Ancient Farmers: 1 by T’ao Ch’ien
Though I knew southern fields in song
long ago, I’d never walked out into them.
Invariably hungry, Yen prefected wisdom,
but how can I ignore spring breaking out
here? At dawn, loading up my cart and
setting out, I already feel far away.
Birds sing, celebrating the new season.
Cool winds bring blessings in abundance,
and in these distances empty of people,
bamboo crowds country paths. Now I see
why that farmer laughing at Confucius
lived so far away and never went back.
My way seems childish to the world-wise,
but what I nurture here never grows thin.
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 with each turning year.
Our temples turn white early, and once
that bleached streamer’s tucked into your
hair, the road ahead starts closing in.
This house is an inn awaiting travelers,
and I 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
from Turning Seasons: 2 by T’ao Ch’ien
Boundless, the lake’s immaculate
skin boundless, I rinse myself
clean. The view all distance,
all distance inciting delight,
I look deep. They say if you’re
content you’re satisfied easily
enough. Raising this winecup, I
smile, taken by earth’s own joy.
translated by David Hinton
for Easter Sunday, 2024: the birds of heaven
time to dance
all the hours
of the day
the night
and shake the dust
from my boots
while tomorrow looms
on the horizon
as the birds
of heaven
sing
Sleep by Yang Wan-li
Only a little high, as if I had drunk no wine at all—
the chilly night seems to last a year.
I woke up at midnight and wrote down a dream
but couldn’t go back to sleep.
Thousands of things rise from the depths of my mind
and appear before my eyes.
The lucid depression is unbearable—
a single wild goose crying in the cold night.
translated by Jonathan Chaves