The sky’s like a pewter
of curiously dulled blue,
and “My heart’s in the highlands . . .,”
feels the day beginning again.
And whatever, whatever, says it
again, and stays here, stays
here with its old hands,
holds on with its stiff, old fingers,
can come too, like they say,
can come with me into this patient weather,
and won’t be left alone, no, never alone ever
again,
in whatever time’s left for us here.
Uncategorized
from Later by Robert Creeley
When I was a kid, I
thought like a kid —
I was a kid,
you dig it. But
a hundred and fifty years later,
that’s a whole long time to
wait for the train.
from A Farewell to Secretary Shu-yün at the Hsieh T’iao Villa in Hsüan-chou by Li Po
But since water still flows, though we cut it with our swords,
And sorrows return, though we drown them with wine,
Since the world can in no way answer our craving,
I will loosen my hair tomorrow and take to a fishing-boat.
translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu
from Thinking of a Monk of Flower Summit on Mount T’ien-t’ai by Ch’i-chi
I wish I could go again, make the Wise One my teacher,
but my head is white and the road so very long.
translated by Burton Watson
from The Inlaid Harp by Li Shang-yin
And a moment that ought to have lasted for ever
Has come and gone before I knew.
translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu
spring night descends
spring here
so pleasant to sit
on a balcony
drink tea with friends
talk movies
as if life resides there
then home
fry mackerel
eat an apple a peach
drink lemon water
and wistfully stare
at that unopened bottle
of whiskey
calling my name
but who can I drink with
old friend
you are long gone
the cat too
the dog’s ashes
in an urn
no distractions left
to delay
the memories’ return
as spring night descends
Thinking of Retired Scholar Wu on the River by Chia Tao
Since you set sail for the state of Min,
the moon has passed from full to full again.
Autumn wind arises on Wei River;
falling leaves fill Ch’ang-an.
I recall that evening together—
suddenly thunder, then cold rain.
Odd your orchidwood oar hasn’t yet returned;
news of you ends at ocean clouds.
translated by Mike O’Connor
flea market
there
a flea market
with tables full
of memories
for sale
from The Black Heralds by César Vallejo
And man . . .Poor . . . poor man! He turns his eyes, as
when a slap on the shoulder calls us by name;
he turns his crazed eyes, and everything he’s lived
wells up, like a pool of guilt, in his gaze.
There are blows in life, so powerful . . . I don’t know!
translated by Rebecca Seiferle
from Summer by César Vallejo
Now don’t cry, Summer! In that furrow dies
one rose that is born again so many times . . .
translated by Rebecca Seiferle
Leonard Durso 