My bed is so empty that I keep on waking up:
As the cold increases, the night-wind begins to blow.
It rustles the curtains, making a noise like the sea:
Oh that those were waves which could carry me back to you.
translated by Arthur Waley
poetry
Last Poem by Po Chü-I
They have put my bed beside the unpainted screen;
They have shifted my stove in front of the blue curtain.
I listen to my grandchildren, reading me a book;
I watch the servants, heating up my soup.
With rapid pencil I answer the poems of friends;
I feel in my pockets and pull out medicine-money.
When this superintendence of trifling affairs is done,
I lie back on my pillow and sleep with my face to the South.
translated by Arthur Waley
On Hearing Someone Sing A Poem By Yüan Chen by Po Chü-I
No new poems his brush will trace;
Even his fame is dead.
His old poems are deep in dust
At the bottom of boxes and cupboards.
Once lately, when someone was singing,
Suddenly I heard a verse–
Before I had time to catch the words
A pain had stabbed my heart.
translated by Arthur Waley
Pruning Trees by Po Chü-I
Trees growing–right in front of my window;
The trees are high and the leaves thick.
Sad alas! the distant mountain view
Obscured by this, dimly shows through.
One morning I took knife and axe;
With my own hand I lopped the branches off.
Ten thousand leaves fall about my head;
A thousand hills come before my eyes.
Suddenly, as when clouds or mists break
And straight through, the blue sky appears;
Again, like the face of a friend one has loved
Seen at last after an age of parting.
First there came a gentle wind blowing;
One by one the birds flew back to the tree.
To ease my mind I gazed to the South East;
As my eyes wandered, my thoughts went far away.
Of men there is none that has not some preference;
Of things there is none but mixes good with ill.
It was not that I did not love the tender branches;
But better still,–to see the green hills!
translated by Arthur Waley
New Year’s Eve by Nazim Hikmet
The snow falling hard through the night
sparkled in the starlight.
There is a house on a street in a city,
a wooden house so far away.
The child sleeping on the pillow
is plump and blond–my son.
There are no guests, no one.
Poor Istanbul out the window.
Shrill whistles screamed outside.
Loneliness feels like prison.
Munevver closed her book
and softly cried.
There is a house on a street in a city,
a wooden house so far away.
The snow falling hard through the night
sparkled in the starlight.
translated by Randy Blasing & Mutlu Konuk
The Cowherd: A Song by Ch’u Kwang-hsi
It matters not if the pasture is far;
It matters not if the slope is steep.
Whether or not the cattle are tame or wild,
The cowherd’s mind is always calm.
A round bamboo hat over my head,
And a long palm-leaf coat to cover my body.
They’re good against summer showers
And good for days cloudy and cold.
The big cows are hidden behind the slopes;
The little ones dart in and out of nearby woods.
All things seem to please each other;
And they move me to sing and chant.
Joy is found in a moment;
Who would ask for a finer tune?
Encountering a Snowstorm, I Stay with the Recluse of Mount Hibiscus by Tu Fu
Dark hills distant in the setting sun,
Thatched but stark under wintry skies.
A dog barks at the brushwood gate,
As someone heads home this windy, snowy night.
On The Boat, Reading Yüan Chen’s Poems by Po Chü-I
I sit up with a scroll of your poems, reading before a lamp.
When I’m done, the lamp’s flickering low and dawn’s far off.
My eyes ache. I put out the lamp and sit in the dark. Waves
blown by headwinds: the sound of them slapping at the boat.
translated by David Hinton
Ordinary Autumn Evening by Dong-Jip Shin
On an ordinary autumn evening
Ordinary fruit is better.
Sometimes ordinary words
With no peculiar savor
Suit me better.
Hearing in memory
The last car depart,
I step over
The membrane of sleep,
And a fruit falls in my dream.
I will ask the wind
That departs in the morning
To what depths the fruit has fallen.
unknown translator
Deer by Chun-Myung No
The long neck makes him a sad creature,
Always gentle and quiet.
The fragrant crown betrays
His noble birth.
Looking at his image
Reflected in the stream,
He recalls the lost myths,
Then in helpless nostalgia,
Cranes the sad neck
To gaze at faraway hills.
Leonard Durso 