When they were wild
When they were not yet human
When they could have been anything,
I was on the other side ready with milk to lure them,
And their father, too, each name a net in his hands.
another poem from the Manyoshu
How I wish I had known
beforehand of this journey
you would make, my lord:
with the red clay from the banks
I would have dyed a robe for you!
translated by Kenneth Yasuda
on any given day: 5:30am on Bahariye Cad, Moda
a scared dog barks
at shadows
while this old man
walks this street
down the hill
then up
the street mostly deserted
except for feral cats
and sleeping dogs
and the water truck
out hosing down
the street and sidewalk
an occasional hooded spectre
sipping beer
or coffee in a paper cup
occupying one of many benches
that line the street
for old people
like me
to catch their breath on
before trudging along
among these denizens
of Moda
in the early morning
on any given day
Mother’s Song from the Manyoshu by an anonymous poet
If snow falls on the far field
where travelers
spend the night,
I ask you, cranes,
to warm my child in your wings.
translated by Willis Barnstone
untitled poem by Ping Hsin
The orphan boat of my heart
Crosses the unsteady, undulant
Ocean of time.
translated by Kenneth Rexroth & Ling Chung
from Spring Waters by Ping Hsin
In shaping the snow into blossoms—
The north wind is tender after all.
All beings are deceived by light and shadow.
Beyond the horizon—
When did the moon ever wax and wane?
In this hazy world,
I have forgotten the first word,
Nor will I ever know the last.
translated by Kai-yu Hsu
Weaving Love-Knots 2 by Hsüeh T’ao
Two hearts: two blades of grass I braid together.
He is gone, who knew the music of my soul.
Autumn in the heart, as the links are broken.
Now he is gone, I break my lute.
But Spring hums everywhere: the nesting birds
Are stammering out their sympathy for me.
translated by Carolyn Kizer
Weaving Love-Knots by Hsüeh T’ao
Daily the wind-flowers age, and so do I.
Happiness, long deferred, is deferred again.
Of sand and ocean, the horizon line
Lies in the middle distance of the dream.
Because our lives cannot be woven together,
My fingers plait the same grasses, over and over.
translated by Carolyn Kizer
still drunk, Tuesday morning, Moda
he weaves
down the street
still drunk
in the early morning
mumbling about
what ails him
fists flailing awkwardly
through the air
while the other early morning strollers
cross the street
and walk a bit faster
he stumbles
down a side street
and disappears
into the darkness
of his mind
Parting Is Hard by An Anonymous Palace Woman
Parting is hard, I’ll tell you twice.
Fallen petals in the wind make me sad again.
When you came, the plum bloomed through the snow.
When you left, the willows were in their spring glory.
Time and seasons hasten the traveler,
there is good weather again on the homeward road.
The world of cares is already far behind:
In a murky dream, I see your face again.
translated by Geoffrey Waters
Leonard Durso 