This autumn night become thoughts of you,
I wander along, offer cold heaven a chant.
In mountain emptiness, a pinecone falls.
My recluse friend must not be asleep either.
translated by David Hinton
poetry
In Idleness, Facing Rain by Wei Ying-wu
All dark mystery, I embrace it replete,
alone, night thinning into morning.
In this empty library, I face tall trees,
sparse rain soaking through rustling
leaves. Nesting swallows flutter, wet.
Orchid petals blur across stone steps.
It’s quiet. Memories come, and grief
suddenly caught and buffeted in wind.
translated by David Hinton
Autumn Night by Wei Ying-wu
I
It’s autumn again. Courtyard trees rustle.
Deep in shadow, insects grieve on and on.
Alone, facing the upper library, I doze,
listening to cold rain clatter in the dark,
window-lattice now and then in the wind
trembling, lamp left failing on the wall.
Grief and sorrow, a lifetime remembered
this far away–all abandoned to the night.
II
Frost and dew spread away–thick, cold.
Star River swings back around, radiant.
Come a thousand niles, north wind rises
past midnight, startling geese. Branches
whisper. Icy leaves fall. And such clarity
in isolate depths of quiet, fulling-stones
grieve. I gaze out through empty space,
tangles of the heart all cold scattered ash.
translated by David Hinton
Spring Thoughts by Li Po (Li Bai)
When grasses in Yen ripple like emerald silk
and lush mulberry branches sag in Ch’in,
he’ll dream of coming home one day,
and I’ll still be waiting, brokenhearted.
We’re strangers, spring wind and I. Why is it
here, slipping inside my gauze bed-curtains?
translated by David Hinton
Thoughts in Night Quiet by Li Po (Li Bai)
Seeing moonlight here on my bed
and thinking it’s frost on the ground,
I look up, gaze at the mountain moon,
then back, dreaming of my old home.
translated by David Hinton
Thoughts Of You Unending by Li Po (Li Bei)
Thoughts of you unending
here in Ch’ang-an,
crickets where the well mirrors year-end golds cry out
autumn, and under a thin frost, mats look cold, ice-cold.
My lone lamp dark, thoughts thickening, I raise blinds
and gaze at the moon. It renders the deepest lament
empty. But you’re lovely as a blossom born of cloud,
skies opening away all bottomless azure above, clear
water all billows and swelling waves below. Skies endless
for a spirit in sad flight, the road over hard passes
sheer distance, I’ll never reach you, even in dreams,
my ruins of the heart,
thoughts of you unending.
translated by David Hinton
Sailing On The Lake To The Ching River by Lu Yu
It is Spring on the lake and
I run six or seven miles.
Sunset, I notice a few
Houses. Children are driving
Home the ducks and geese. Young girls
Are coming home carrying
Mulberry leaves and hemp. Here
In this hidden village the
Old ways still go on. The crops
Are good. Everybody is
Laughing. This old man fastens
His boat and climbs up the bank.
Tipsy, he holds fast to the vines.
translated by Kenneth Rexroth
I Climb A Hilltop: anti-war poem from the Book of Songs
I climb a rock-strewn hilltop
and gaze, gaze out toward my
father, O father calling: My child, my child dragged off to war,
no rest all day and all night.
Take care, take care and be ever
homeward, not stuck out there.
I climb a grass-patch hilltop
and gaze, gaze out toward my
mother, O mother calling: My little one, my little one dragged off to war,
no sleep all day and all night.
Take care, take care and be ever
homeward, not lost out there.
I climb some windblown ridge
and gaze, gaze out toward my
brother, O brother calling: My brother, my brother dragged off to war,
formation all day and all night.
Take care, take care and be ever
homeward, not dead out there.
translated by David Hinton
Evening in the Village by Lu Yu
Here in the mountain village
Evening falls peacefully.
Half tipsy, I lounge in the
Doorway. The moon shines in the
Twilit sky. The breeze is so
Gentle the water is hardly
Ruffled. I have escaped from the
Lies and trouble. I no longer
Have any importance. I
do not miss my horses and
Chariots. Here at home I
Have plenty of pigs amd chickens.
translated by Kenneth Rexroth
untitled poem 7 by Fernando Pessoa
Oh ship setting out on a distant voyage,
Why don’t I miss you the way other people do
After you’ve vanished from sight?
Because, when I don’t see you, you cease to exist.
And if I feel nostalgia for what doesn’t exist,
The feeling is in relationship to nothing.
It’s not the ship but our own selves that we miss.
translated by Richard Zenith
Leonard Durso 