A river moon only a few feet away, storm-lanterns
alight late in the second watch. . .Serene
flock of fists on sand–egrets asleep when
a fish leaps in the boat’s wake, shivering, cry.
translated by David Hinton
poetry
The Bamboo By Li Ch’e Yun’s Window by Po Chü-i
Don’t cut it to make a flute.
Don’t trim it for a fishing
Pole. When the grass and flowers
Are all gone, it will be beautiful
Under the falling snow flakes.
translated by Kenneth Rexroth
a Papago song: The Wind Blows From The Sea
By the sandy water I breathe in the odor of the sea,
From there the wind comes and blows over the world,
By the sandy water I breathe in the odor of the sea,
From there the clouds come and rain falls over the world.
revised by Frances Densmore from an anonymous translator
a Navajo poem: It Was The Wind
It was the wind that gave them life. It is the wind that comes out of our mouths now that gives us life. When this ceases to blow we die. In the skin at the tips of our fingers we see the trail of the wind; it shows us where the wind blew when our ancestors were created.
translated by Washington Matthews
River Snow by Liu Tsung-yuan
A thousand mountains, no birds fly.
Ten thousand paths, no footprints.
Lone skiff, rush-cloaked old man.
Fishing alone, cold river snow.
translated by J.P. Seaton
A different translation of this poem but as Mary Tang would say, That’s what makes translations so interesting.
Song of the Bamboo Stalks by Liu Yu-hsi
Red blossoms: mountain peach, upon the heights.
Shu River: floods of spring caress the mountain, flowing.
The flowers bloom and fade, so like his love.
The waters run on endlessly: my sorrow.
translated by J.P. Seaton
because it bears a reposting: This Journey by Nazım Hikmet
We open doors,
close doors,
pass through doors,
and reach at the end of our only journey
no city,
no harbor—
the train derails,
the ship sinks
the plane crashes.
The map is drawn on ice.
But if I could
begin this journey all over again,
I would.
translated by Randy Blasing & Mutlu Konuk
The Fastness by Paul Blackburn
To stand there in the dimness with a robe on
I shake loose the feelings your eyes have
under your lids in a moment of intimacy
another dim time wheeling over you, it’s
no business of mine
what you wear under your robe
or what the hour is.
And don’t tell me,
your eyes
keep saying that.
What Is Left by Hüseyin Yurttaş
What is left
of the streets I thundered through like a raging wind
of my youthful steps whose echoes are imprinted on the walls
what is left
in the ravishing summers where docile shadows swayed
the light that flowed through me like a legend
which darkness is it now pursing in the cascade of the years
the lightning flashing distantly on my horizons
what does it now want to reveal of the beyond
which unanswerable questions in this endless inquiry
are reiterated unceasingly in the desolation of my life
in this blinding flood that may never end
yes, in truth, what is left
of my youthful steps whose echoes are imprinted on the walls
translated by Suat Karantay
from The Tale of Tales by Nazım Hikmet
Here we are at the edge of the water
the sycamore and I, the cat and the sun with all that we are.
The water is cool
the sycamore magnificent
I am writing poetry
the cat dozing.
The sun is warm–
how wonderful to be alive.
The water casts light back on us
the sycamore and me, the cat and the sun and all that we are.
translated by Jean Carpenter Efe
Leonard Durso 