Birds the more white, against green stream
Blooms burst to flame, against blue hills
I glance, the spring is gone again.
What day, what day, can I go home?
Translated by Jerome P. Seaton
Uncategorized
poem by Han Shan
Man lives his life in a dust bowl,
Just like vermin in the middle of the pot:
All day going round and round,
Never getting out from the inside.
Blessedness is not our lot:
Only nettlesomeness without end.
Time is like a flowing river—
One day, we wake up old men.
translated by Eugene Eoyang
from dreaming of Li Po, Two Poems: from 1 by Tu Fu
Old friend, you appeared in a dream,
It shows you have long been in my thoughts.
Perhaps it wasn’t your living soul:
The way’s too far, it couldn’t be done.
Your spirit came: and the maples were green:
Your spirit left: the mountain pass darkened.
Friend, now that you’re ensnared down there,
How did you manage to wing away?
Moonlight shines full on the rafters,
Yet I wonder if it isn’t your reflection.
The waters are deep, the waves expansive:
Don’t let the water dragon get you!
translated by Eugene Eoyang
2:50am in Moda: wherever I am
morning noon night
those faces
just won’t let me be
and sleep
once a friend
no longer lives
wherever I am
from Firstly: poem vııı by Paul Eluard
My love for having given form to my desires
brought your lips to the sky of your words as a star
your kisses in the living night
and the wake of your arms around me
like a flame in the sign of conquest
my dreams are clear and perpetual
in this world.
And when you aren’t here
I dream that I sleep
I dream that I dream.
translated by Stuart Kendall
from Firstly: poem xxvı by Paul Eluard
I closed my eyes so as not to see
I closed my eyes to cry
from no longer seeing you.
Where are your hands and the hands of caresses
where are your eyes the four whims of the day
with everything to lose you are no longer there
to dazzle the memory of the nights.
With everything to lose I see myself live.
translated by Stuart Kendall
Pale Blue by Aslı Durak
Hold my hand
Not to carry me far away . . . no.
My roots and branches
Will strain for distant clouds
Maybe my eyes
Are in that same pavilion of loneliness now
Let my face again be the statue of sadness
When you beautify me
Maybe
I’m a pale blue woman now
translated by George Messo
The Seventh Step by Perihan Mağden
I’m a black forgotten bag at the station
I’m tears but no one sees
I spit daylight into night
Istanbul nights stink of men
In the sky, blue mounts its greatest fight
Night presses against the sea, raping it
How your hands twist my heart
I close my windows but it’s useless
I’m the ten thousand children sworn to night
I’m the wild apricot twig robbed of hope
On the sixth step I hold you tight
On the seventh, we part
translated by George Messo
Birds by Perihan Mağden
Deceitful stones these birds
Recalling spring, they sing of it
Morning I opened the window
Winter streets, spring birds
translated by George Messo
poem 3 by Stephen Crane
Once I saw mountains angry,
And ranged in battle-front.
Against them stood a little man;
Aye, he was no bigger than my finger.
I laughed, and spoke to one near me,
“Will he prevail?”
“Surely,” replied this other;
“His grandfathers beat them many times.”
Then did I see much virtue in grandfathers–
at least, for the little man
Who stood against mountains.
Leonard Durso 