I had thousands of mondays in my life
cannot recall which one it was
I remember eating a cherry, it had a worm
so it must have been quite a while ago
and some absurd things
like the shorts on a girl
the ugly manner a man smoked
how does one live in this controlled world
how can any lunatic endure it
finding anyone’s family is not my duty
I am content composing my own story
it’s a beautiful midday
remembering a beautiful night of the past
and then things filled to the brim
like bottles of water
I feel like crying
let this be the end, I say
but the end of what
at least of these stone steps
translated by Omer Kursat
from Dreams in War Time: IV by Amy Lowell
I painted the leaves of bushes red
And shouted “Fire! Fire!”
But the neighbors only laughed.
“We cannot warm our hands at them,” they said.
Then they cut down my bushes,
And made a bonfire,
And danced about it.
But I covered my face and wept,
For ashes are not beautiful
Even in the dawn.
from Burial Songs: 3 by T’ao Ch’ien
Day won’t dawn again in a thousand years,
and what can all our wisdom do about it?
Those who were just here saying farewell
return to their separate homes. And though
my family may still grieve, the others
must be singing again by now. Once you’re
dead and gone, what then? Trust yourself
to the mountainside. It will take you in.
translated by David Hinton
drinking whiskey at 7am in Moda as a sleepless night turns to waiting for the slow breaking of the day
on my tongue
that sweet bliss
of Irish
melting away
what once was
and still is
not to be forgotten
as I move along
this worn path
toward all of you
long gone
except from my heart
my heart
my heart
breakfast with Fred, summer, 1967
every time
I add milk
when scrambling eggs
I go back
to your house
in Massachusetts
you making breakfast
and telling me your secret
that look of joy
mixed with mischief
a twinkle in your eye
ah old friend
dead two years
before I knew
and regret
filling my heart
for losing contact
with eggs and bacon
and the sound
of your clear voice
your guitar
on sandy beaches
of our youth
and once again ’cause this is where I am now: TOGETHER, WE ALL GO OUT UNDER THE CYPRESS TREES IN THE CHOU FAMILY BURIAL-GROUNDS by T’ao Ch’ien
Today’s skies are perfect for a clear
flute and singing koto. And touched
this deeply by those laid under these
cypress trees, how could we neglect joy?
Clear songs drift away anew. Emerald wine
starts pious faces smiling. Not knowing
what tomorrow brings, it’s exquisite
exhausting whatever I feel here and now.
translated by David Hinton
Thanksgiving Eve, 2024: for David
we talk briefly
of politics
neither one
wanting to offend
the other
we still
on opposite sides
of hope
and then
of your son
my Godson
his two year old
and how time
moves on
withour our
particular involvement
just two old friends
5000 miles apart
drifting inevitably
toward the end
that awaits us
but still thankful
for our joint participation
NO PARTICULAR DAY by Mark Strand
Items of no
particular day
swarm down—
moves of the mind
that never quite
make it as poems:
like the way
you take me aside
and leave me
by the water
with its waves
knitted
like your sweater
like your brow;
moves of the mind
that take us
somewhere near
and leave us
combing the air
for signs
of change,
signs the sky
will break
and shower down
upon us
particular
ideas of light.
from Form, Shadow, Spirit: from Form Addresses Shadow by T’ao Ch’ien
I’m no immortal. I can’t just soar away
beyond change. There’s no doubt about it,
death’s death. Once you see that, you’ll
see that turning down drinks is for fools.
translated by David Hinton
from My Ginger Tabby by Maksym Kryvtsov
When he falls asleep
and slowly stretches his front legs
he dreams of summer
dreams of an unscathed brick house
dreams of chickens
running around the yard
dreams of children
who treat him to meat pies
my helmet slips out of my hands
falls on the mud
the cat wakes up
squints his eyes
looks around carefully:
yes, they’re his people:
and falls asleep again.
translated by Christine Chraibi
Leonard Durso 