Month: September 2014

Spring by Su Tung P’o

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The pear blossoms are pure
White against the blue green willows.
The willow cotton blows in the wind.
The city is full of flying pear flowers.
The petals fallen on the balcony look like snow.
How many Spring Festivals are we born to see?

translated by Kenneth Rexroth

Monday rituals: for K

/ zdunno03 / 8 Comments

breakfast comes in
at a little past eight
a morning ritual
here
served with a smile
the toast warm
the tomatoes sweet
a dozen or so olives
cucumber cheese
a cup of tea
a bottle of cold water
coffee to follow
this is how morning
begins
in my office
while I gaze
at the fountains
outside
Ataturk looks down
from my wall
while scrolls
of bamboo a wild horse
remind me of home
lunch will come later
after a session
at noon
I will chat
with Ali
have two more sessions
dinner with Mustafa
then home
my week has started
with rituals
only distracted
my mind adrift
thinking of a woman
and her rituals
so far apart
but melted together
in my heart

 

 

 

To The Tune, Plum Blossoms Fall And Scatter by Li Ch’ing Chao

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The perfume of the red water lilies
Dies away. The Autumn air
Penetrates the pearl jade curtain.
Torches gleam on the orchid boats.
Who has sent me a message
Of love from the clouds? It is
The time when the wild swans
Return. The moonlight floods the women’s
Quarters. Flowers, after their
Nature, whirl away in the wind.
Split water, after its nature
Flows together at the lowest point.
Those who are of one being
Can never stop thinking of each other.
But, ah, my dear, we are apart,
And I have become used to sorrow.
This love–nothing can ever
Make it fade or disappear.
For a moment it was on my eyebrows,
Now it is heavy in my heart.

translated by Kenneth Rexroth

from Deva-like Barbarian: Lyric 1 by Wei Chuang

/ zdunno03 / 2 Comments

The night of our parting in the red tower is enough for sorrow;
By the fragrant lamp, the tasseled screen is but half rolled up.
As I leave the moon is just fading;
She says goodbye mixed with tears.

The guitar is ornamented with gold and kingfisher feathers;
From its strings come the caroling cries of orioles.
Urging me to return soon,
She is like a flower in the window!

translated by Lois M. Fusek

from Sand of Silk-washing Stream: Lyric 3 by Wei Chuang

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I wake in sad reverie; the moon is slating over the mountain;
A single lamp shines on the wall from behind the window curtain;
The beautiful one lives in a high apartment in the small tower.

I think of her lovely jade-like face–how shall I compare it?
A branch of cold plum blossoms in the spring snow.
The fragrant mist of her body is like the gathered clouds of dawn.

translated by Lois M. Fusek

Raymond Chandler on the American language and LA: courtesy of Chuck Thegze

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I have had a lot of fun with the American language; it has fascinating idioms, is constantly creative, very much like the English of Shakespeare’s time, its slang and argot are wonderful, and so on. But I have lost Los Angeles. It is no longer the place I knew so well and was almost the first to put on paper. I have the feeling, not very unusual, that I helped create the town and then was pushed out of it by the operators. I can hardly find my way around any longer.

Raymond Chandler c1957, La Jolla, California, in a letter to John Houseman, cited in The Atlantic, August, 1965

Thoughts In Exile by Su Tung P’o

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I lift my head and watch
The phoenix and the snowy swan
Cross the heavens in their migrations.
Wealth, office, position,
After all these years, mean nothing to me.
The foundered horse no longer
Hopes to travel a thousand miles.
In exile, in autumn,
I grow lazy and indifferent.
In history men have
Always been treated like this.
I am forbidden to visit the Western Lake.
There is no place else I want to go.
The wise man, no matter how he is treated,
Knows that Heaven does nothing without reason.
But nobody can stop me
From writing poems about the
Mountains and rivers of Wu.

translated by Kenneth Rexroth