The white clouds float over the mountains of Chu–
As over the mountains of Chin.
Everywhere the white clouds will follow you on.
They will follow you on everywhere–
With you they will enter the Chu mountains,
And cross the waters of the Hsiang.
Yonder across the waters of the Hsiang,
There is a cloak of ivy to wear,
And you may lie in a bed of white clouds.
Go swiftly home, O my friend!
translated by Shigeyoshi Obata
we both have said
at various times in our lives
there were things of value
and the trick was knowing
just which things they were
and so we find
old friend
the things we leave behind
are not always what we discard
but grow instead
in our hearts
stronger than before
if that were even possible
and sight
old friend
is not always done with our eyes
the heart sees better
and years do not dim it
so as our bodies fumble
in the dark
our breath grows shorter
the arms no longer able to carry
the weight they once held
we still
old friend
remain connected
ten thousand miles
cannot break that bond
too many decades have come and gone
too many miles traveled together
up and down and across
two continents
we closed too many restaurants
watched fireworks over two oceans
driven or rode or flown
over too much territory
climbed a glacier
stood on mountains
seen our share of whales
there have been too many crabs eaten
too much wine drunk
too many glasses of brandy shared
and so much trouble
we talked our way into
and out of
over these many, many years
Bill Mohr once said
seeing us together for the first time
as you helped me assemble a gas barbecue
in my backyard
that he understood why
we were such good friends
more like brothers
your father called us a vaudeville team
and we did routines
to amuse ourselves
more than anyone else
in countless states
in foreign countries
and though I know your eyes
my eyes
have watered of late
these thousands of miles
these long years now
keeping us from laughing
at our own jokes
rest assured
old friend
our vaudeville days are not over
and since you can no longer
make the trip alone
I promise
old friend
I’ll be there yet
one morning
i am singing the cold rain
i am singing the winter dawn
i am turning in the gray morning
of my life
toward home
the candle flickers
the glass empties itself
the wind rustles the flag outside my window
and my thoughts are with you
old friend
you put aside my book to write
to tell me of your heart
memories, you say
of what and who we were, are
you ask when will I return
my company, you say
you sorely miss
I see you
old friend
in a picture on my shelf
your beard now grey
I think
and your hair thin
much like mine
not like in LA
the car ride up Topanga Canyon
at two in the morning
to see a woman we both loved
you huddled on the floor in back
while I drove one-handed
a bottle of scotch in the other
we were crazy then
but somehow survived
you long to hold me close
you say
and I, too, cling to air
we need to share a glass
old friend
let Steve watch us drink ourselves to God
and when the bottle empties
there will be another to uncork
and you and I and Steve
old friend
will retell stories
of pregnant ladies with axes
of Shakespeare in the park
of Leo’s potato salad
of the silence between cuts
and we will laugh
old friend
till the sun peeks through the curtains
and warms the world
once again
You have left me behind, old friend, at Yellow Crane Terrace,
On your way to visit Yang-chou in the misty month of flowers;
Your sail, a single shadow, becomes one with the blue sky,
Till now I see only the river, on its way to heaven.
translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu
While I watch the moon go down, a crow caws through the frost;
Under the shadows of maple trees a fisherman moves with his torch;
And I hear, from beyond Su-chou, from the temple on Cold Mountain,
Ringing for me, here in my boat, the midnight bell.
translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu
footsteps in the hallway
whispers in the dark
an extended empty hand
a back turns slowly
a door closes
blinds drawn against the sun
sighs like thunder
tears like rain
there are no tomorrows
only yesterdays
As the holiday approaches, and grasses are bright after rain,
And the causeway gleams with willows, and wheatfields wave in the wind,
We are thinking of our kinfolk, far away from us.
O cuckoo, why do you follow us, why do you call us home?
translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu
Serving the poetry master with writing-brush and inkstone,
I’m steadied by music and my friend, the immortality of wine,
but for lofty sentiments, I stay close to things themselves:
green moss, rock bamboo-shoots, water lilies in white bloom.
translated by David Hinton
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