My heart is 3 .7 . 9
3 orifices
7 mountains
9 seas
You
build these 3. 7. 9. down into me
into I
and dance and swell in my mind
and dance and swell. . . .
poetry
ABRI: COTE D’AMOUR by Paul Blackburn
I am an unquiet bird
My head falls forward with fatigue at evening
wings folded
several successes several failures, yes
it’s been a long loveless day
If I’d hunted the stones to the south
. .(the stone outside us is beauty
I might have done better
Well
tomorrow,
no matter, tomorrow. . .
. .(and the stone within us is love
. . . .both
stone will bust the beak
or break the foot or the wing
there is no other way to live
I suppose we are all Orpheus if we would
. .No, I’m not
dozing or dreaming of home
. .I am home.
Cold Spring Pavilion by Lin Chen
A stream of pure water can soothe a poet’s soul
it alone knows how warm or cold the years have been
flowing into West Lake it carries entertainers
looking back it’s changed since the mountains
translated by Red Pine
Surprised by Autumn on the Fen by Su T’ing
The North Wind blows white clouds
a thousand miles and across the Fen
the hopes of my heart shudder and fall
the sounds of autumn are hard to bear
translated by Red Pine
In Exile by Li Shang-yin
A spring day
here at the world’s end
the world’s end where once again
the sun is going down
the oriole’s cry–
if it had tears
it could water the blossoms
on top of the trees.
translated by David Young
from Five Hundred Words About My Journey From The Capital To Feng-hsien by Tu Fu
women like goddesses
are dancing inside
all silk and perfume
guests in sable furs
music of pipes and fiddles
camel-pad broth being served
with frosted oranges and pungent tangerines
behind those red gates
meat and wine are left to spoil
outside lie the bones
of people who starved and froze
luxury and misery a few feet apart!
my heart aches to think about it.
translated by David Young
Back by Robert Creeley
Suppose it all turns into, again,
just the common, the expected
people, and places, the distance
only some change and possibly one
or two among them all, gone–
that word again–or simply more
alone than either had been
when you’d first met them. But you
also are not the same,
as if whatever you were were
the memory only, your hair, say,
a style otherwise, eyes now
with glasses, clothes even
a few years can make look
out of place, or where you
live now, the phone, all of it
changed. Do you simply give
them your address? Who?
What’s the face in the mirror then.
Who are you calling.
from Written In The 12th Month, Kuei Year Of The Hare, For My Cousin Ching-yüan by T’ao Ch’ien
Roaming through thousand-year-old books,
I meet timeless exemplars. I’ll never
reach their high principles, though I’ve
somehow mastered resolute in privation,
and there’s no chance renown will redeem
this poverty. But I’m no fool for coming
here. I send findings beyond all words:
who could understand this bond we share?
translated by David Hinton
Climbing to Canopy Pavilion on a Summer Day by Ts’ai Ch’ueh
A paper screen a stone pillow a square bamboo bed
a book falls from my hand during a midday dream
I wake up pleased and smile to myself
at the sound of a fisherman’s lute on the waves
translated by Red Pine
from Peach-blossom Spring by T’ao Ch’ien
Wandering in the world, who can fathom
what lies beyond its clamor and dust. O,
how I long to rise into thin air and
ride the wind in search of my own kind.
translated by David Hinton
Leonard Durso 