poetry

Written One Morning in the 5th Moon, After Tai Chu-pu’s Poem by T’ao Ch’ien

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It’s all an empty boat, oars dangling free,
but return goes on without end. The year

begins, and suddenly, in a moment’s glance,
midyear stars come back around, bright

sun and moon bringing all things to such
abundance. North woods lush, blossoming,

rain falls in season from hallowed depths.
Dawn opens. Summer breezes rise. No one

comes into this world without leaving soon.
It’s our inner pattern, which never falters.

At home here in what lasts, I wait out life.
A bent arm my pillow, I keep empty whole.

Follow change through rough and smooth,
and life’s never up or down. If you can see

how much height fills whatever you do, why
climb Hua or Sung, peaks of immortality?

translated by David Hinton

In Reply to Chia P’eng of the Mountains, Sent Upon Seeing That the Pine He Planted Outside My Office Has Begun to Prosper by Liu Tsung-yüan

/ zdunno03 / 7 Comments

Flourish and ruin keep leaving each other,
but no-mind stays, dark-enigma’s fruition.

The bloom of youth scatters steadily away
and grandeur crumbles to its tranquil end,

but mountain streams continue here in this
green pine you brought to this courtyard,

deep snows showing off its radiant beauty
and cold blossoms its kingfisher-greens.

At dawn, even a pure recluse must yearn:
now, I just invite clear wind for company.

translated by David Hinton

and the poem that led me to this wonderful poet 15 years ago thanks to Ali Rıza Esmen: I Am LIstening To Istanbul by Orhan Veli Kanık

/ zdunno03 / 18 Comments

I am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed
First a breeze is blowing
And leaves swaying
Slowly on the trees;
Far far away the bells of the
Water carriers ringing,
I am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed.

I am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed
A bird is passing by,
Birds are passing by, screaming, screaming,
Fish nets being withdrawn in fishing weirs,
A woman’s toe dabbling in water,
I am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed.

I am listening,
The cool Grand Bazaar,
Mahmutpasha twittering
Full of pigeons,
Its vast courtyard,
Sounds of hammering from the docks,
In the summer breeze far, far away the odor of sweat,
I am listening.

I am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed
The drunkenness of old times
In the wooden seaside villa with its deserted boat house
The roaring southwestern wind is trapped,
My thoughts are trapped
Listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed.

I am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed
A coquette is passing by on the sidewalk,
Curses, sings, sings, passes;
Something is falling from your hand
To the ground,
It must be a rose.
I am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed.

I am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed
A bird is flying round your skirt;
I know if your forehead is hot or cold
Or your lips are wet or dry;
Or if a white moon is rising above the pistachio tree
My heart’s fluttering tells me. . .
I am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed.

translated by Murat Nemet-Nejat

On Mustard by Orhan Veli Kanık

/ zdunno03 / 5 Comments

I was so stupid.
For years
I didn’t understand
The place
Of mustard
In society.
“One can’t
Live
Without mustard.”

Abidin was saying
The same thing
The other day
To those
Who understood
Deeper things.

I know it isn’t necessary,
But may God deprive no one
Of mustard.

translated by Murat Nemet-Nejat

Written in Imitation of the Song Called “Hard Traveling” by Pao Chao

/ zdunno03 / 4 Comments

I

Scribing lines as it goes, water poured on flat ground
runs east or west or north or south as it flows:
human life is also fated. Why then sigh
as you go forward, or melancholy, sit?
Pour wine to fete thyself, raise up the cup
and do not deign to sing “Hard Traveling.”
Heart-and-mind; they are not wood-and-stone. . .
How might one not bear pain? And if I know
fear as I stagger on, I’ll never deign to speak it.

II

Sir, don’t you see? The grass along the riverbank?
In the winter it withers, come spring it springs again
to line all pathways.
Today, the sun is set, completely gone, already.
Tomorrow morning won’t it rise again?
But when in time shall my way be just so. . .
Once gone, I’m gone forever, banished to the Yellow Springs, below.
In human life the woes are many and the satisfactions few:
so seize the moment when you’re in your prime.
If one of us achieve a noble aim, the rest may take joy in it.
But best keep cash for wine on the bedside table.
Whether my deeds be scribed on bamboo and silk
is surely beyond my knowing.
Life or death, honor or shame? These I leave to High Heaven.

translated by J.P. Seaton