Little boat with no treadboard
crossing the straits,
take care!
The hail pelts wildly
and the swift wind sweeps in

translated by Burton Watson & Hiroaki Sato

voices sing upstairs
a sad melancholy tune
hands slap on drum skins
beat to underscore singing
softly below I too chant

what were you doing
going forward going back
such indecision
too late comes the time wishing
you just came forward to me

the past comes calling
knocking on a virtual door
in unexpected searches
on google
names faces dates
a litany of information
that one had tried
so hard
to forget
there it is
a reminder of events
one did participate in
and words said
promises made
some kept
others broken
in black and white
on a computer screen
like it or not
one cannot disappear
from anyone
even one’s self
so we come
into each other’s lives
and memory
once triggered
is like Banquo’s ghost
there to imply the words
left unspoken

An unknown evening hour
Of a station with an age-old platform, sadness
By my side, I knew no direction.

I had left you up there, in the sky
Dark were the trees and the road
Dark were your white clothes.

The night, that treasure, foreign stone
Your window was above the trees
No voice or iron can save me now.

Here I am in the hours
The hours are nowhere, no
Not in this direction, not in that.

I had left you up there, in the sky.

translated by Şehnaz Tahir-Gürçağlar

Here we part.
You go off in the distance,
And once more the forested mountains
Are empty, unfriendly.
What holiday will see us
Drunk together again?
Last night we walked
Arm in arm in the moonlight,
Singing sentimental ballads
Along the banks of the river.
Your honor outlasts three emperors.
I go back to my lonely house by the river,
Mute, friendless, feeding the crumbling years.

So I’m talking to Pasquale as he’s driving me to the village my great grandfather lived in and where my grandfather was born and we’re talking about driving and his sister Gilda who is a special person in my eyes. We both agree she terrifies us and I admit to holding on to the side of the car while my life flashed before me as she swerved in and out of NYC traffic cursing everyone else on the road.

Then the subject of her stubbornness came up and I said being stubborn was part of the Italian character. Pasquale objected to this and said no, it was just Gilda. Then I asked him if he was stubborn. He shrugged (another trademark of Italians) and said of course. So I said my point exactly. Then he countered with it’s a family trait. Then I said of my family, too, and of…

lightning doesn’t strike twice
in the same place
then it did
smoke and ashes
scars that don’t fade

For an unemployed gentleman bound for Wuling
a first-rsate sword is worth a ton of gold
I remove this in parting and give it to you
a simple piece of my heart

translated by Red Pine

Again last night
in a country inn
I heard a crow cawing all night.

Today
where shall I be bound?
How many more miles to go?

Up to the mountains,
onto the plains?
No, no place beckons.

No more talk.
To my home in the far north
trains and boats travel.

Tell me,
wild goose in the skies,
is there a sky-road that you travel so freely?

Wild goose in the skies,
look at me standing
at the crossroads.

The road radiates
in many directions
yet none of them can I choose.

translated by Jaihiun Kim & Ronald B. Hatch