I wish I could go again, make the Wise One my teacher,
but my head is white and the road so very long.
translated by Burton Watson
from The Inlaid Harp by Li Shang-yin
And a moment that ought to have lasted for ever
Has come and gone before I knew.
translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu
spring night descends
spring here
so pleasant to sit
on a balcony
drink tea with friends
talk movies
as if life resides there
then home
fry mackerel
eat an apple a peach
drink lemon water
and wistfully stare
at that unopened bottle
of whiskey
calling my name
but who can I drink with
old friend
you are long gone
the cat too
the dog’s ashes
in an urn
no distractions left
to delay
the memories’ return
as spring night descends
Thinking of Retired Scholar Wu on the River by Chia Tao
Since you set sail for the state of Min,
the moon has passed from full to full again.
Autumn wind arises on Wei River;
falling leaves fill Ch’ang-an.
I recall that evening together—
suddenly thunder, then cold rain.
Odd your orchidwood oar hasn’t yet returned;
news of you ends at ocean clouds.
translated by Mike O’Connor
flea market
there
a flea market
with tables full
of memories
for sale
from The Black Heralds by César Vallejo
And man . . .Poor . . . poor man! He turns his eyes, as
when a slap on the shoulder calls us by name;
he turns his crazed eyes, and everything he’s lived
wells up, like a pool of guilt, in his gaze.
There are blows in life, so powerful . . . I don’t know!
translated by Rebecca Seiferle
from Summer by César Vallejo
Now don’t cry, Summer! In that furrow dies
one rose that is born again so many times . . .
translated by Rebecca Seiferle
remembering LA, 1978: for Maureen on her birthday
no matter what year
it’s still 1978
we’re sitting in Bruno’s
you’re drinking White Russians
I’m drinking bourbon
the sun is shining
outside the dark bar
and all the life
I need to see
is in your eyes
from Visiting Gold Mountain Temple by Su Tung-p’o
I went back to bed puzzled, uncertain what I’d seen—
not human, not ghostly, what could it have been?
All these river hills, and I don’t go home to hills of my own—
the river god sent this wonder to chide my stupidity!
Apologies to the river god, but right now what can I do?
If in the end I don’t return to homeland fields, let him punish me as he will!
translated by Burton Watson
for my Mother on Mother’s Day: aiming toward heaven
Once again, this poem, this picture for my mother on Mother’s Day, 2023
there
Leonard Durso 