Remember that fun time we all had, the last time there was a crazy moon out? Write a poem and tag  it on WordPress, Twitter, Instagram, the old barn door, wherever, as #fullmoonsocial2015. Mei Yao-ch’en and I believe you must. Go!

Last night in the bar a girl Bill and I were talking to especially stands out in my head. A “hippie” type. (Sorry, but that’s what words are for) Very sincere in what she believed in. But what she believed in was totally fucked up. But like I said, very sincere about it all.

It always bothers me, this combination. Of sincere and wrong. It doesn’t seem fair. Sincere should always be right.

With history piling up so fast, almost every day is the anniversary of something awful.

Living is not a joking matter:
you have to live with great seriousness
. . . . . . . .like a squirrel, for instance,
that is to say, without expecting anything outside or beyond living,
. . .which means, you must devote yourself fully to living.

You have to take living seriously,
in such a way, to such an extent
that, for instance, your hands tied behind you, your back to the wall,
or wearing think spectacles and a white robe,
in a laboratory,
you must be willing to die for other people,
even those whose faces you have never seen,
although nobody has forced you to do this
and although you know that living
. . .is the most beautiful and the most genuine thing.

That is to say, you have to take living so seriously
that, for instance, even at age seventy, you will plant olive trees

is how I’m best remembered
present tense often
not easy to bear
especially here
outside my natural element
which is not to say
I won’t have another glass
of whatever they’re pouring
wherever I am
before moving farther
down the line
letting memory
take care of itself

who couldn’t decide
if she liked me
or not
by the time
she made up her mind
to tell me
I was someplace
else

They’ll go to the moon
. . . . . . .and beyond,
to places even telescopes can’t see.
But when will no one go hungry
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .on earth
. . . . . . .or fear others
. . . . . . .or push them around,
. . . . . . .shun them
. . . . . . .or steal their hope?
Because I responded to this question
. . . . . . . . . .I’m called a Communist.

translated by Randy Blasing & Mutlu Konuk

my cat looks up
as he hears a cat crying in the night
he looks at me with wide eyes
and no, I say
this is not New York
and you do not hear another you
we are aliens here, I say
this is Istanbul
and Turkish cats are crying
for food, for shelter
but you are safe
there is food in your bowl
water, treats
no hunger here for a stray New Yorker
and life goes on
in relative peace
climb back on the bed
and sleep, little friend
sleep
you are more or less
at home

…my soul is not fashioned like other men’s.
To drive in their rut I might perhaps learn:
To be untrue to myself could only lead to muddle.
Let us drink and enjoy together the wine you have brought:
For my course is set and cannot now be altered.

translated by Arthur Waley

The clear stream girdles the long copse,
Carriage horses amble with ease, with ease.
Flowing water seems to be purposeful.
Evening birds in pairs return.
Barren city walls overlook the cold ford,
Fading sunlight fills the autumn mountains.
Far and distant–below Sung’s height;
I’ve come home, and close the gate.

translated by Paul Kroll