No new poems his brush will trace:
Even his fame is dead.
His old poems are deep in dust
At the bottom of boxes and cupboards.
Once lately, when someone was singing,
Suddenly I heard a verse–
Before I had time to catch the words
A pain had stabbed my heart.
translated by Arthur Waley
from T’ao Ch’ien
But my soul is not fashioned like other men’s.
To drive in their rut I might perhaps learn:
To be untrue to myself could only lead to muddle.
Let us drink and enjoy together the wine you have brought:
For my course is set and cannot now be altered.
translated by Arthur Waley
what was yesterday: for Marion Gittleman
a note
in my inbox
brings memories
of dark eyes
of mystery
then as now
and names
crop up
of crazy times
knowing how to laugh
as if time
was on our side
ah youth
so quickly gone
and now the slow fade
to what awaits
tomorrow
warmed by what was
yesterday
Looking through old photos, this poem of Po Chü-i came to mind: Pouring Out My Feelings after Parting from Yüan Chen by Po Chü-i
Drip drip, the rain on paulownia leaves;
softly sighing, the wind in the mallow flowers.
Sad sad the early autumn thoughts
that come to me in my dark solitude.
How much more so when I part from an old friend–
no delight then in my musings.
Don’t say I didn’t see you off–
in heart I went as far as the Green Gate and beyond.
With friends, it’s not how many you have
but only whether they share your heart or not.
One who shares my heart has gone away
and I learn how empty Ch’ang-an can be.
translated by Burton Watson
June 10, 8pm, in Moda
they cry
these gulls
like infants
no one here
to cradle them
rock them to sleep
a grandmother’s song
to ease them
into the fading light
I stand on my balcony
raise my glass
wishing them peace
this hot night
on clarity
there’s no other
method
to achieve clarity
than 3 fingers’ worth
of whiskey
at 3 am
from Returning to My Home in the Country No. 4 by T’ao Yüan-ming
In one generation both court and city change–
be assured, that’s no idle saying.
Man’s life is a phantom affair,
and he returns at last to the empty void.
translated by Burton Watson
Lamenting Revenue Manager Liu Fen by Li Shang-yin
Dwelling apart, the star-signs changed,
hope lost, the living divided from the dead.
The last cinnamon dries in the apple jug,
old rue grows cold on the bookslips.
River winds keen, blowing wild geese,
mountain trees’ sunset glow, bearing cicades.
I shout once, my head turns a thousand times,
but Heaven is high and will not hear me.
translatedby Stephen Owen
The Tomb of Little Su by Li He
Dew on the hidden orchid.
like crying eyes.
Nothing ties a love knot,
flowers in mist I cannot bear to cut.
Grass like the carriage cushion,
pines like the carriage roof,
the wind is her skirt,
the waters, her pendants.
A carriage with oiled sides
awaits in the evening.
Cold azure candle
struggles to give light.
At the foot of West Mound
wind blows the rain.
translated by Stephen Owen
Winter Night by Jia Dao
I pass through winter again in travels,
the ladle empty, the pot empty as well.
Tears stream upon a cold pillow,
my tracks are gone in my former hills.
Ice forms in waters with drifting duckweed,
snow blends with the wind in ruined willows.
The cock does not announce dawn’s light,
but a few wild geese are screeching.
translated by Stephen Owen
Leonard Durso 