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
Month: March 2024
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
Evening Sitting in the Wo-chih Studio by Yang Wan-li
The room is stuffy and uncomfortable:
I open a window to let in the cool air.
Forest trees shade the sunlight;
the inkstone on my desk glitters jade green.
My hand reaches naturally for a book of poetry
and I read some poems out loud.
The ancients had a mountain of sorrows
but my heart is as calm as a river.
If I am different from them,
how is it that they move me so deeply?
The feeling passes and I laugh to myself.
Outside a cicada urges on the sunset.
translated by Jonathan Chaves
To Know the Dark by Wendell Berry
To go into the dark with a light is to know the light.
To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,
and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.
Sleep by Wendell Berry
I love to lie down weary
under the stalk of sleep
growing slowly out of my head,
the dark leaves meshing.
To Go By Singing by Wendell Berry
He comes along the street, singing,
a rag of a man, with his game foot and bum’s clothes.
He’s asking for nothing—his hands
aren’t even held out. His song
is the gift of singing, to him
and to all who will listen.
To hear him, you’d think the engines
would all stop, and the flower vendor would stand
with her hands full of flowers and not move.
You’d think somebody would have hired him
and provided him a clean quiet stage to sing on.
But there’s no special occasion or place
for his singing—that’s why it needs
to be strong. His song doesn’t impede the morning
or change it, except by freeing adding itself.
The Coming of Light by Mark Strand
Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.
and this one once again: Lines to Be Sent Home Written on a Rainy Night by Li Shang-yin
You ask me the date of my return—no date has been set.
The night rain over the Pa Mountains swells the autumn pond.
O when shall we together trim the candle by the west window,
And talk about the time when the night rain fell on the Pa Mountains?
translated by James J.Y. Liu
Thoughts during Separation by Li Shang-yin
My breath is exhausted by the Dance of the Front Brook;
My heart aches at the Midnight Song.
I seek but cannot find the cloud from the Gorge;
What am I to do with the water in the ditch?
The northern wild goose has ceased to bring letters;
The bamboos by the Hsiang are stained with many tears.
I have no means of getting to see your face,
But let me still entrust the tiny ripples with a message!
translated by James J.Y. Liu
Early Rising by Li Shang-yin
Light breeze and dew in the early morning—
By the curtains I rise, all alone.
The oriole cries while the flowers smile:
Who owns this spring after all?
translated by James J.Y. Liu
Leonard Durso 