He and I both nearing seventy,
what does it mean to meet like this?
The age of a sage king has yet to arrive,
but partings and rebellions–we have plenty of that!
Though the gate to detachment is hard to attain,
days of leisure pass quickly.
For the rest of our lives, aside from writing letters,
we’ll just be at the beck of the poetry devil.
translated by Burton Watson
there are some things
in life
you cannot avoid
and fate
is one of them
for fate is defined
by character
and character
is fate
dogs bark
on the street
down below
the cat sleeps
undisturbed
clutching my left arm
his piece
of heaven
Want to know what the passing year is like?
A snake slithering down a hole.
Half his long scales already hidden,
how to stop him from getting away?
Grab his tail and pull, you say?
Pull all you like–it does no good.
The children try hard not to doze,
chatter back and forth to stay awake,
but I say let dawn cocks keep still!
I fear the noise of watch drums pounding.
We’ve sat so long the lamp’s burned out.
I get up and look at the slanting Dipper.
How could I hope next year won’t come?
My mind shrinks from the failures it may bring.
I work to hold on to the night
while I can still brag I’m young.
translated by Burton Watson
Bright moon, when did you appear?
Lifting my wine, I question the blue sky.
Tonight in the palaces and halls of heaven
what year is it, I wonder?
I would like to ride the wind, make my home there,
only I fear in porphyry towers, under jade eaves,
in those high places the cold wind would be more than I could bear.
So I rise and dance and play in your pure beams,
though this human world–how can it vie with yours?
Circling red chambers,
low in the curtained door,
you light our sleeplessness.
Surely you bear us no ill will–
why then must you be so round at times when we humans are parted!
People have their griefs and joys, their togetherness and separation,
the moon its dark and clear times, its roundings and wanings.
I only hope we two may have long long lives,
may share the moon’s beauty, though a thousand miles apart.
translated by Burton Watson
From the traveler, singing; from the field, weeping–both spur sorrow.
Fires in the distance, dipping stars move slowly toward extinction.
Am I waiting up for New Year’s Eve? Aching eyes won’t close.
No one here speaks my dialect: I long for home.
A double quilt and my feet still cold–the frost must be heavy;
my head feels light–I washed it and the hair is getting thin.
I thank the flickering torch that doesn’t refuse
to keep me company on a lonely boat through the night.
translated by Burton Watson
May it be delightful my house;
From my head may it be delightful;
To my feet may it be delightful;
Where I lie may it be delightful;
All above me may it be delightful;
All around me may it be delightful.
Sweep the floor, burn incense, close the door to sleep;
a mat marked like water, curtains like mist.
I dream a guest comes, wake wondering where I am,
prop open the west window on waves that meet the sky.
translated by Burton Watson
Before dusk on the lake, the moon just full,
The fisherman from Pa-ling chants incessantly his boatman’s songs.
Fishing gear,
A boat with an up-turned bow,
To be happy in wind and waves one need not be a saint.
translated by Hellmut Wilhelm
Shaking my head, I left the world of red dust,
No longer caring when to be sober, when drunk.
My livelihood–the green grass cloak and the straw hat;
I’m used to wearing frost and braving snow.
When night falls, the wind settles and the fishing line lies idle.
Above and below is the new moon.
For a thousand miles, water and sky are the same color.
Watch the single wild goose appear and disappear!
translated by James J.Y. Liu
Being Present for the Moment
Website storys
Illustration, Concept Art & Comics/Manga
Singer, Songwriter and Author from Kyoto, Japan.
Singer, Songwriter and Author from Kyoto, Japan.
An online activist from Bosnia and Herzegovina, based in Sarajevo, standing on the right side of the history - for free Palestine.
A place where I post unscripted, unedited, soulless rants of a insomniac madman
Dennis Mantin is a Toronto-based writer, artist, and filmmaker.
Finding Inspiration
Off the wall, under the freeway, over the rainbow, nothin' but net.
Erm, what am I doing with my life?
Artist by choice, photographer by default, poet by accident.
At Least Trying Too
A Journey of Spiritual Significance
Life in islamic point of view
Through the view point of camera...
L'essenziale è invisibile e agli occhi e al cuore. Beccarlo è pura questione di culo
In Kate's World
Leonard Durso 