I remember long ago when you and I were boys;
each year we dropped our books and raced to the fair.
Peddlers outdid each other hawking goods;
peasants stood gaping, ripe to be cheated–
when your poem came it brought back those times again.
I grieve less for home than for the years that are lost.
translated by Burton Watson
I wonder
If it’s only poets
Who stare at broken cobbles
And dream of gleaming asphalt?
translated by George Messo
Nothing is as it used to be,
Neither am I.
I don’t care about myself for a long time,
Nor my appearance.
I walk barefoot now.
Neither flu nor cold scares me as they used to.
I have bigger problems, like everyone else, which mint and lemon are no good for.
I don’t mind the swollen tonsils relapsing every winter and spring,
I don’t eat or drink too hot or too cold, they all go by in a few days anyway.
Things go on.
Things go by.
Yet there are things that I swallow despite the pain they inflict.
Things which do not go on
Things which do not go by
I have trouble sleeping at times, but,
I don’t care about this sleeping thing anymore,
Since I’ve realized, there are things which do not disappear with sleeping anymore.
translated by Burak Tıraş
When I think of you
A pebble warms in me
A bird settles on the edge of my heart
A poppy flourishes suddenly
A poppy bleeds insidiously
When I think of you
A plum tree dresses up from top to bottom
Starts to spin hysterically
As it spins, it dissolves bit by bit
As it dissolves, it dwindles
Becomes a deep blue plum in my mouth
Its seed has just sprouted
My lips burn when I touch
When I think of you
A pebble warms in me
translated by Burak Tıraş
In what dynasty, under what emperor,
did we live without war?
And in every war
every man dreamed of peace.
And now the farmer
finds more bones than soil.
And here comes the draft board,
wanting more bodies.
translated by Sam Hamill
Spring breezes erase the flowers,
leaving me in a state of yin.
This quiet downhill road leads by
a half-hidden bower where I’ll make my bed.
Straw sandals, a walking stick–
I wander the world alone,
only a few northern birds pass by
like the memory of a beautiful song.
translated by Sam Hamill
Eleven years ago I was a southbound exile
after four thousand li I’m in the North again
together with the summons warm weather arrived too
along the postal route new flowers every day
translated by Red Pine
I keep thinking about this minnow in that tiny pond
then I worry about these puny wings trying to reach Heaven
I’ve lost count of the markers along the shore
each one farther from where we parted
translated by Red Pine
Before it departed I asked Spring
when it would reach the Ch’in Plains
and could it carry a dream back home
all the way to my old garden
translated by Red Pine
My old friend takes off from the Yellow Crane Tower,
In smoke-flower third month down to Yangchou.
A lone sail, a distant shade, lost in the blue horizon.
Only the long Yangtze is seen flowing into the sky.
translated by Wai-lim Yip
Being Present for the Moment
Website storys
Illustration, Concept Art & Comics/Manga
Singer, Songwriter and Author from Kyoto, Japan.
Singer, Songwriter and Author from Kyoto, Japan.
An online activist from Bosnia and Herzegovina, based in Sarajevo, standing on the right side of the history - for free Palestine.
A place where I post unscripted, unedited, soulless rants of a insomniac madman
Dennis Mantin is a Toronto-based writer, artist, and filmmaker.
Finding Inspiration
Off the wall, under the freeway, over the rainbow, nothin' but net.
Erm, what am I doing with my life?
Artist by choice, photographer by default, poet by accident.
At Least Trying Too
A Journey of Spiritual Significance
Life in islamic point of view
Through the view point of camera...
L'essenziale è invisibile e agli occhi e al cuore. Beccarlo è pura questione di culo
In Kate's World
Leonard Durso 