poetry

Horizon by Philippe Soupault

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The whole town has come into my room
the trees have disappeared
and evening clings to my fingers
The houses are turning into ocean liners
the sound of the sea has just reached me up here
In two days we’ll arrive in the Congo
I’ve passed the Equator and the Tropic of Capricorn
I know there are innumerable hills
Notre-Dame hides the Gaurisankar and the northern lights
night falls drop by drop
I await the hours

Give me that lemonade and the last cigarette
I’m going back to Paris

translated by Rosmarie Waldrop

Way by Tristan Tzara

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What is this road that separates us
across which I hold out the hand of my thoughts
a flower is written out at the very tip of each finger
and the very end of the road is a flower which walks along with you

translated by Michael Benedikt

Black Joy by Jean Arp

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flowers are blackened with joy
the sky is beautiful as flame
i’m transported by just one day’s worth of flower-labor
how would you like to fly away with me

how would you like a day’s worth of lightning-flashes
how would you like a flower identical with heaven
how would you like several flowers like lightning-flashes
how would you like a fiery sky

hovering just beyond my head
is you my lovely flower-labor
hovering just beyond my head
is you my lovely black flame of joy

translated by Michael Benedikt

Rhyming with Tzu-yu’s “At Mien-ch’ih, Recalling the Past” by Su Tung-p’o

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Wanderings of a lifetime–what do they resemble?
A winging swan that touches down on snow-soaked mud.
In the mud by chance he leaves the print of his webs,
but the swan flies away, who knows to east or west?
The old monk is dead now, become a new memorial tower;
on the crumbling wall, impossible to find our old inscriptions.
Do you recall that day, steep winding slopes,
road long, all of us tired, our lame donkeys braying?

translated by Burton Watson

Feet Stuck Out, Singing Wildly by Su Tung-p’o

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Feet stuck out, singing wildly, I beat an old clay tub;
singeing fur, roasting meats, like a northwest nomad.
Outriders shout through the market–you’ve come to fetch me;
on Fishing Point, sand is swept, wine jars set out.
Boys from the foothills crowd to watch us dance;
white bones by the river remember your kindness.
One cloud, a slanting sun–I gaze southwest
and envy crows that know the way back home.

POET’S NOTE TO THE POEM: Governor Chan came to visit me, bringing wine. Using a previous rhyme of mine, he composed a poem, and I responded with another poem in the same rhyme.

translated by Burton Watson

On First Arriving at Huang-chou by Su Tung-p’o

/ zdunno03 / 4 Comments

Funny–I never could keep my mouth shut;
it gets worse the older I grow.
The long river loops the town–fish must be tasty;
good bamboo lines the hills–smell the fragrant shoots!
An exile, why mind being a supernumerary?
Other poets have worked for the Water Bureau.
Too bad I was no help to the government
but still they pay me in old wine sacks.

translated by Burton Watson

On a Boat, Awake at Night by Su Tung-p’o0

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Faint wind rustles reeds and cattails;
I open the hatch, expecting rain–moon floods the lake.
Boatmen and water birds dream the same dream;
a big fish splashes off like a frightened fox.
It’s late–men and creatures forget each other
while my shadow and I amuse ourselves alone.
Dark tides creep over the flats–I pity the cold mud-worms;
the setting moon, caught in a willow, lights a dangling spider.
Life passes swiftly, hedged by sorrow;
how long before you’ve lost it–a scene like this?
Cocks crow, bells ring, a hundred birds scatter;
drums pound from the bow, shout answers shout.

translated by Burton Watson