The stepping-stones, once
in a row along the slope,
have drifted out of line,
pushed by frosts and rains.
Walking is no longer thoughtless
over them, but alert as dancing,
as tense and poised, to step
short, and long, and then
longer, right, and then left.
At the winter’s end, I dance
the history of its weather.
Author: zdunno03
The Cold Pane by Wendell Berry
Between the living world
and the world of death
is a clear, cold pane;
a man who looks too close
must fog it with his breath,
or hold his breath too long.
on reading
lost in words
on the page
coffee grows cold
in my cup
light grows
then fades
away
Seeing Off a Friend by Li Po
Green mountains draw a line beyond the Northern Rampart.
White water curls around the Eastern Wall.
This place? Good as any for a parting . . .
Ahead just the lonely briars where you’ll march ten thousand li.
Floating clouds: the traveler’s ambition.
Falling sun: your old friend’s feelings.
We touch hands, and now you go.
Muffled sighs, and the post horses, neighing.
translated by J.P. Seaton
from Written in Imitation of the Song Called “Hard Traveling: 2 by Pao Chao
In human life the woes are many and the satisfactions few:
so seize the moment when you’re in your prime.
If one of us achieve a noble aim, the rest may take joy in it.
But best keep cash for wine on the bedside table.
Whether my deeds be scribed on bamboo and silk
is surely beyond my knowing.
Life or death, honor or shame? These I leave to High Heaven.
translated by J.P. Seaton
a poem for Tom on this his birthday: The Plan by Wendell Berry
My old friend, the owner
of a new boat, stops by
to ask me to fish with him,
and I say I will—both of us
knowing that we may never
get around to it, it may be
years before we’re both
idle again on the same day.
But we make a plan, anyhow,
in honor of friendship
and the fine spring weather
and the new boat
and our sudden thought
of the water shining
under the morning fog.
7:30am, on my balcony, in Moda
rain again
wetting the streets
the courtyard below
and I
last night’s whiskey
in hand
stand on my balcony
waiting for the sun
My Old Home by Po Chü-i
Below distant walls, crickets weave autumn song. Tender gaze
drifting low, the moon casts fresh shadows in under the eaves.
The bed curtains are old, ribbons gracing blinds broken short,
and now the cold comes before evening dark starts settling in.
translated by David Hinton
Something Said, Waking Drunk on a Spring Day by Li Po
It’s like boundless dream here in this
world, nothing anywhere to trouble us.
I have, therefore, been drunk all day,
a shambles of sleep on the fourth porch.
Coming to, I look into the courtyard.
There’s a bird among blossoms calling,
and when I ask what season this is,
an oriole’s voice drifts on spring winds.
Overcome, verging on sorrow and lament,
I pour another drink. Soon, awaiting
this bright moon, I’m chanting a song.
And now it’s over, I’ve forgotten why.
translated by David Hinton
from Gazing at the Lu Mountain Waterfall: 1 by Li Po
Here, after wandering among these renowned
mountains, the heart grows rich with repose.
Why talk of cleansing elixirs of immortality?
Here, the world’s dust rinsed from my face,
I’ll stay close to what I’ve always loved,
content to leave that peopled world forever.
translated by David Hinton
Leonard Durso 