it hovers briefly
before taking off
this spirit
with damaged wings
in sad flight
making its way
home
to you
Month: October 2020
using a line from Wei Ying-wu: floating clouds
like floating clouds
across the vast heavens
we drift
together
then apart
life’s endless cycle
here on planet earth
Happily Meeting an Old Friend from Liangchuan on the Huai by Wei Ying-wu
When we were both guests in Chianghan
whenever we met we left drunk
we’ve been drifting clouds ever since
following rivers ten years now
the happiness we feel is the same
though our hair has thinned and turned gray
why haven’t we gone home
and left these autumn hills on the Huai
translated by Red Pine
Climbing a Tower: To Councillor Wang by Wei Ying-wu
I hate climbing mountains and towers without you
the clouds and sea of Ch’u and memories never end
the sound of mallets at the foot of leafless hills
in a perfecture of brambles and winter rain
translated by Red Pine
Farewell by Yü Hsüan-chi
All those tender nights upstairs in the capital, hearts content
together—I never guessed my pure-spirit love would leave.
Now, dozing and waking, I don’t mention drifting clouds gone
who knows where. The lamp burns low. A wild moth flutters.
translated by David Hinton
Untitled Poem by Li Shang-yin
It’s so hard to be together, and so hard to part: a tender
east wind is powerless: the hundred blossoms crumble:
the heart-thread doesn’t end until the silkworm’s dead,
and tears don’t dry until the candle’s burnt into ash:
she grieves, seeing white hair in her morning mirror,
and chanting at night, she feels the chill of moonlight:
exquisite Paradise Mountain—it isn’t so very far away,
and that azure bird can show us the way back anytime.
translated by David Hinton
Gazing Out in Grief, Sent to Adept-Serene by Yü Hsüan-chi
Maple leaves color a thousand, fill ten thousand branches.
Evening sails creep through a bridge’s drowned reflection.
Longing for you, my heart is like this west-river current
flowing east day and night—never ceasing, never ceasing.
translated by David Hinton
The Boat-Pullers by Mei Yao-ch’en
Leg broken on the sandy shore, a goose
hobbles along like a man, wings splayed:
what will it do when evening rains come
and the cold wind starts ripping through?
Sodden feathers mud-strained, arched neck
shrinking back—it doesn’t utter a sound.
That’s their life exactly. Guess it’s better
than lugging weapons around some war.
translated by David Hinton
adding to a line from Wang An-shih: the past traced in thought
the past
traced in thought
and etched
as in stone
in our minds
impossible to forget
yet painful at times
to remember
as we fumble forward
ever again
Leonard Durso 