Creek crisscrosses the meadow, banks scarred where water rose;
in sparse woods, frost-burned roots stick out at a slant.
Little boat with a single oar–where’s it going?
Home south of the river to a village of yellow leaves.
translated by Burton Watson
Every year at the jade mirror stand,
it’s harder to paint myself into a plum flower.
You didn’t return home this year,
and each letter from across the Yangtze fills me with fear.
I drink less since our separation,
my tears exhausted in sorrow.
I see deep Chou clouds when I think of him in distance.
My man is far and the world’s edge is near.
translated by Tony Barnstone & Chou Ping
Returning from dream, sobering up, I fear spring sorrow.
Smoke dies in the duck-shaped incense burner, but the fragrance lingers.
My thin quilt can’t stop the dawn chill.
Cuckoos sing and sing till from the west tower the moon drops.
translated by Tony Barnstone & Chou Ping
Had I been an ox or horse
I would rejoice to see grass and beans;
If, on the other hand, I were a woman,
the sight of men would please me.
But if I were really me
I would always settle for what I be.
If liking and dislike keep you upset
surely you are being used:
Big man, with all your dignity,
don’t mistake what you have for what you are.
translated by Jan W. Walls
I follow the moon into the mountains,
I search for clouds to accompany me home.
A spring morning, dew on the flowers:
and the fragrance clings to my gown.
translated by Jan W. Walls
The harvest ripe, the farmers rejoice;
in the autumn wind the traveler alone grieves.
On and on winds this crooked road
and a homeward horse in the slanting sun.
translated by Jan. W. Walls
Swallows return here
to cold heights to dart through flying waters.
My friends gone, my heart sees them:
a flash of pure brilliance, glistening, long.
translated by J.P. Seaton
A hundred days, free to go, and it’s almost spring;
for the years left, pleasure will be my chief concern.
Out the gate, I do a dance, wind blows my face;
our galloping horses race along as magpies cheer.
I face the wine cup and it’s all a dream,
pick up a poem brush, already inspired.
Why try to fix the blame for trouble past?
Years now I’ve stolen posts I never should have had.
*written on his release from prison
translated by Burton Watson
Wanderings of a lifetime–what do they resemble?
A winging swan that touches down on snow-soaked mud.
In the mud by chance he leaves the print of his webs,
but the swan flies away, who knows to east or west?
The old monk is dead now, become a new memorial tower;
on the crumbling wall, impossible to find our old inscriptions.
Do you recall that day, steep winding slopes,
road long, all of us tired, our lame donkeys braying?
translated by Burton Watson
I’m not ashamed at my age to stick a flower in my hair.
The flower is the embarrassed one, topping an old man’s head.
People laugh as I go home drunk, leaning on friends–
ten miles of elegant blinds raised halfway for watching.
translated by Burton Watson
Being Present for the Moment
Website storys
Illustration, Concept Art & Comics/Manga
Singer, Songwriter and Author from Kyoto, Japan.
Singer, Songwriter and Author from Kyoto, Japan.
An online activist from Bosnia and Herzegovina, based in Sarajevo, standing on the right side of the history - for free Palestine.
A place where I post unscripted, unedited, soulless rants of a insomniac madman
Dennis Mantin is a Toronto-based writer, artist, and filmmaker.
Finding Inspiration
Off the wall, under the freeway, over the rainbow, nothin' but net.
Erm, what am I doing with my life?
Artist by choice, photographer by default, poet by accident.
At Least Trying Too
A Journey of Spiritual Significance
Life in islamic point of view
Through the view point of camera...
L'essenziale è invisibile e agli occhi e al cuore. Beccarlo è pura questione di culo
In Kate's World
Leonard Durso 