Faint shadow, a house, and traces of rain.
In courtyard depths, the gate’s still closed
past noon. That lazy, I gaze at moss until
its green-azure comes seeping into robes.
translated by David Hinton
Month: August 2019
following Wang An-shih at Lumen River
the gulls swoop
catching pieces of simit
thrown from the ferry
by young couples
out on holiday
and I watch the water
separating my city
from two continents
here
somewhere inbetween
what was
what will be
and the boat
moving through this strait
lights up
a weary heart
Cut Flowers by Wang An-shih
Getting this old isn’t much fun,
and it’s worse stuck in bed, sick.
I draw water and arrange flowers,
comforted by their scents adrift,
scents adrift, gone in a moment.
And how much longer for me?
Cut flowers and this long-ago I:
it’s so easy forgetting each other.
translated by David Hinton
across the floor
the cat
chases a ball
across the floor
the bell tinkles
he rushes forth
oh how easy
to chase a ball
across the floor
fickle wind
the wind blows
my heart
east west
north south
oh fickle wind
leave this old heart
alone
A Night-Mooring at Wu-chang by Lu Lun
Far off in the clouds stand the walls of Han-yang,
Another day’s journey for my lone sail . . .
Though a river merchant ought to sleep in this calm weather,
I listen to the tide at night and voices of the boatman.
. . . My thin hair grows wintry, like the triple Hsiang streams,
Three thousand miles my heart goes, homesick with the moon;
But the war has left me nothing of my heritage—
And oh, the pangs of hearing these drums along the river!
translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu
A Farewell to Li Tuan by Lu Lun
By the old gate, among yellow grasses;
Still we linger, sick at heart.
The way you must follow through cold clouds
Will lead you this evening into snow.
Your father died; you left home young;
Nobody knew of your misfortunes.
We cry, we say nothing. What can I wish you
In this blowing wintry world?
translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu
A Political Prisoner Listening to a Cicada by Lo Ping-wang
While the year sinks westward, I hear a cicada
Bid me to be resolute here in my cell,
Yet it needed the song of those black wings
To break a white-haired prisoner’s heart . . .
His flight is heavy through the fog,
His voice drowns in the windy world.
Who knows if he is singing still?—
Who listens any more to me?
translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu
standing in the kitchen: for Chuck who would understand
eating dinner
listening to Steely Dan
while standing
in the kitchen
the rewards
of a solitary life
The Gold-threaded Robe by Tu Ch’iu-niang
Covet not a gold-threaded robe,
Cherish only your young days!
If a bud open, gather it—
Lest you but wait for an empty bough.
translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu
Leonard Durso 