Autumn pursues its morning
The dog
in the child’s garden.
translated by Sidney Wade & Efe Murad
poetry
Cats by Melih Cevdet Anday
Children wake in the night,
They search for something in the dark.
Women wake in the night,
They fiddle with their rings in the dark.
In the night cats wake,
They stare at us in the dark.
translated by Sidney Wade & Efe Murad
Epitaph by William Carlos Williams
An old willow with hollow branches
slowly swayed his few high bright tendrils
and sang:
Love is a young green willow
shimmering at the bare wood’s edge.
Hero by William Carlos Williams
Fool,
put your adventures
into those things
which break ships–
not female flesh.
Let there pass
over the mind
the waters of
four oceans, the airs
of four skies!
Return hollow-bellied
keen-eyed, hard!
A simple scar or two.
Little girls will come
bringing you
roses for your button-hole.
The Poem by William Carlos Williams
It’s all in
the sound. A song.
Seldom a song. It should
be a song–made of
particulars, wasps,
a gentian–something
immediate, open
scissors, a lady’s
eyes–waking
centrifugal, centriperal
El Hombre by William Carlos Williams
It’s a strange courage
you give me ancient star:
Shine alone in the universe
toward which you lend no part!
from The Rose by William Carlos Williams
The fragility of the flower
unbruised
penetrates space.
Sonnet in Search of an Author by William Carlos Williams
Nude bodies like peeled logs
sometimes give off the sweetest
odor, man and woman
under the trees in full excess
matching the cushion of
aromatic pine-drift fallen
threaded with trailing woodbine
a sonnet might be made of it
Might be made of it! odor of excess
odor of pine needles, odor of
peeled logs, odor of no odor
other than trailing woodbine that
has no odor, odor of nude woman
sometimes, odor of man.
from After the Rebellion, Visiting West Mountain Temple by Ch’i-chi
I for one have no plans to abandon the road I’m on.
translated by Burton Watson
Late in the Day, Gazing Out from a River Pavilion by Chia Tao
Water to the horizon
veils the base of clouds;
mountain mist
blurs the far village.
Returning to nest, birds
make tracks in the sand;
passing on the river, a boat
leaves no trace on the waves.
I gaze at the water
and know its gentle nature;
watch the mountains
until my spirit tires.
Though not yet ready
to leave off musing,
dusk falls,
and I return by horse.
translated by Mike O’Connor
Leonard Durso 