Yesterday it was this way too–
today again it will be like this.
Why fret your life away
forever worrying about tomorrow?

How many times have I gone down into the valley
where dreams of glory and decay still linger,
seen the uncertain drift of the river waves,
sand-laden water that circles and returns?

Ah, what is the old castle saying?
What do the waves along the shore reply?
Be still and consider the ages gone by–
a hundred years are like yesterday

Chikuma River willows are hazy,
spring is shallow, the water flows on.
Alone I wander over the rocks,
binding my sorrows to this shore

translated by Hiroaki Sato & Burton Watson

Swiftly the years, beyond recall.
Solemn the stillness of this fair morning.
I will clothe myself in spring-clothing
And visit the slopes of the Eastern Hill.
By the mountain-stream a mist hovers,
Hovers a moment, then scatters.
There comes a wind blowing from the south
That brushes the fields of new corn.

translated by Arthur Waley

red is healthier they say
but white brings back
thoughts of you
and conversations
sorely missed
in this life of mine

standing naked
at 2:30am
in my kitchen
eating cold chicken
olives
an avacado salad
drinking white wine
after reading Pete Hamill
on NYC
no one watching
even the cat asleep
in another room
if that ain’t heaven
at least a tiny corner
of it
I don’t know
what is

A bank of fine grass and light breeze
A tall-masted solitary night boat.
Stars descend over the vast wild plain;
The moon bobs in the Great River’s flow.
Fame: is it ever to be won in literature?
Office: I should give up, old and sick.
Floating, floating, what am I like?
Between earth and sky, a gull alone.

translated by James J.Y. Liu & Irving Y. Lo

sometimes
too many choices
are worse
than none at all
indecision
sets in
clouding the brain
which never deals well
with clouds
and one stands
on precipices
looking everywhere
but down
which is ultimately
where one goes
when stepping off
into the unknown

Where the sun has entered the western hills,
I look for a monk in his little straw hut;
But only the fallen leaves are at home,
And I turn through chilling levels of cloud.
I hear a stone gong in the dusk,
I lean full-weight on my slender staff. . .
How within this world, within this grain of dust,
Can there be any room for the passions of men?

translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu

As the holiday approaches, and grasses are bright after rain,
And the causeway gleams with willows, and wheatfields wave in the wind,
We are thinking of our kinfolk, far away from us.
O cuckoo, why do you follow us, why do you call us home?

translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu

we scamper
among the trees
Ali and me
two kids
in a farmer’s field
plucking figs
from trees
and giggling
as we split them open
to taste
their sweetness
guilty pleasure
a break from work
washing our hands
in the sprinklers
before climbing back
in a waiting car
to return
to the business
at hand