If autumn were here
these would be mountains
as we see them now,
where the deer cries
in longing for his wife–
on these high fields.
translated by Ian Hideo Levy
poetry
The Waters of Lung-t’ou by Hsü Ling
The road that I came by mounts eight thousand feet;
The river that I crossed hangs a hundred fathoms.
The brambles so thick that in summer one cannot pass!
The snow so high that in winter one cannot climb!
With branches that interlace Lung Valley is dark:
Against cliffs that tower one’s voice beats and echoes.
I turn my head, and it seems only a dream
That I ever lived in the streets of Hsien-yang.
translated by Arthur Waley
from Halfway Down The Coast by Paul Blackburn
And love? What is that
many-faceted mother?
Nothing More? by Juan Ramon Jimenez
Only my face and the sky.
The only universe.
My face, alone, and the sky.
(Between them, the pure breeze,
a fond caress, the only hand
that brings so much plentifulness;
the breeze, always rising and falling.)
Above me, all that is life,
the entire dream within me,
brushing against my senses with its wings,
that he has brought into harmony.
Nothing more.
. . . . . . .Are you perhaps
the breeze that comes and goes
from the sky, love, to my face?
translated by Dennis Maloney & Clark Zlotchew
Light and Water by Juan Ramon Jimenez
The light above–golden,orange, green
among the vague clouds.
Ah, trees without leaves,
roots in water,
branches in light!
Underneath, the water–green, orange, golden
among the vague mist.
Among the vague mist, among the vague clouds,
light and water; what magic they vanish!
translated by Dennis Maloney
Why I Am Not A Painter by Frank O’Hara
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
For instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
“Sit down and have a drink” he
says. I drink, we drink. I look
up. “You have SARDINES in it.”
“Yes, it needed something there.”
“Oh.” I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. “Where’s SARDINES?”
All that’s left is just
letters. “It was too much,” Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a galley
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.
an old favorite by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
See
. .it was like this when
. . . . . . . . . . .we waltz into this place
a couple of Papish cats
. . . . . . . . .is doing an Aztec two-step
And I says
. . . . . .Dad let’s cut
but then this dame
. . . . . . . .comes up behind me see
. . . . . . . . . . . .and says
. . . . . . . .You and me could really exist
Wow I says
. . . . . .Only the next day
. . . . . . .she has bad teeth
. . . . . . . . . .and really hates
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .poetry
Po Chü-I on Chuang-tzü
Chuang-tzü levels all things
And reduces them to the same Monad.
But I say that even in their sameness
Difference may be found.
Although in following the promptings of their nature
They display the same tendency,
Yet it seems to me that in some ways
A phoenix is superior to a reptile!
translated by Arthur Waley
Po Chü-I on Lao-tzü
“Those who speak know nothing;
Those who know are silent.”
These words, as I am told,
Were spoken by Lao-tzü.
If we are to believe that Lao-tzü
Was himself one who knew,
How comes it that he wrote a book
of five thousand words?
translated by Arthur Waley
The Autumn Wind by Wu-ti
Autumn wind rises: white clouds fly.
Grass and trees wither: geese go south.
Orchids all in bloom: chrysanthemums smell sweet.
I think of my lovely lady: I can never forget.
Floating-pagoda boat crosses Fen River.
Across the mid-stream white waves rise;
Flute and drum keep time to sound of the rowers’ song;
Amidst revel and feasting, sad thoughts come;
Youth’s years are few! Age how sure!
translated by Arthur Waley
Leonard Durso 