she sits
the girl in the café
one leg folded
under her
the other straight out
she is slightly hunched
over the book
in her delicate hands
as if guarding the words
from escaping
before she has absorbed
their significance
her dark eyes
fixed on the pages
of the book
her missal
the words a prayer
for her salvation
Not Here by Oktay Rıfat
In the trees a hoping for wind
a longing in me for the sea
but the wind blows and the sea shows
gulls in the coffer of the sky
perhaps we’re not here at all
translated by Ruth Christie & Richard McKane
Like All Homes by Oktay Rıfat
You have lines in your palms
I see your horoscope
of a senseless sleep
you reach the snake house
through long corridors
the first room under the fairy roof
the first couch where we made love
tranlated by Ruth Christie & Richard McKane
Lament by Oktay Rıfat
The fruit was plucked from the branch
And crushed under an ironshod boot.
Now there’s the color of blood behind the mountain,
Now your eyes are bloodshot and dry.
Hold me, my rose, take this hand of mine,
The delight of my eyes has withered.
translated by Ruth Christie & Richard McKane
The Years by Alex Dimitrov
All the parties you spent
watching the room
from a balcony
where someone joined you
to smoke then returned.
And how it turns out no one
had the childhood they wanted,
and how they’d tell you this
a little drunk, a little slant
in less time than it took
to finish a cigarette
because sad things
can’t be explained.
Behind the glass and inside,
all your friends buzzed.
You could feel the shape
of their voices. You could
tell from their eyes they were
in some other place, 1999
or 2008 or last June.
Of course, it’s important
to go to parties. To make
life a dress or a drink
or suede shoes someone wears
in the rain. On the way home,
in the car back, the night sky
played its old tricks. The stars
arranged themselves quietly.
The person you thought of drove
under them. Away from the party,
(just like you) into the years.
Bathing the Infant by Su Tung-p’o
Most people expect their sons to be clever,
My whole life was ruined by cleverness.
I only wish my son to be dull and stupid
And without suffering or hardship to reach the highest rank.
translated by Chiang Yee
from Mourning for My Wife, Three Poems: 1 by Mei Yao-ch’en
We came of age, and were made man and wife.
Seventeen years have gone by since then.
I still have not tired of gazing at her face
but now she has left me forever.
My hair has nearly turned white,
Can this body hold out much longer?
When the end comes I’ll join her in the grave;
until my death, the tears flow on and on.
translated by Jonathan Chaves
Untitled Poem by Shih Te
I laugh at my failing strength in old age,
Yet still dote on pines and crags, to wander there in solitude.
How I regret that in all these past years until today,
I’ve let things run their course like an unanchored boat.
translated by James M. Hargett
from Tune: “Immortal at the River” by Su Tung-p’o
I long regret I can’t master my own body,
Much less come to terms with worldly problems.
Night advances, quiet breeze quivers on ripples.
How I wish to sail away in my little skiff
And high on the waters, live out the rest of my life.
translated by Michael E. Workman
Reading by the Window by Yang Wan-li
I idly open a book of T’ang poems
and find a petal of peach blossom, still fresh.
I remember taking the book with me
to read among the flowers
and realize that another year has passed.
translated by Jonathan Chaves
Leonard Durso 