Middle years devoted to the nation, I lived a fleeting dream,
and home again in old age, I wander borderland wilderness.
Looking south to green mountains, it’s clear I’m not so alone
here; on spring lakes, they crowd my little-boat life all adrift.
translated by David Hinton
Together we climb to this East Ridge lookout on New Year’s Eve
and gaze at the Star River, its length lighting distant forests.
Earth’s ten thousand holes cry and moan. That wind’s our ruin,
and in a thousand seething waves, there’s no trace of a heart.
translated by David Hinton
Hair whiter still, I ache to see those long-ago northlands,
but keep to this refuge:goosefoot cane, windblown trees.
Pity the new moon–all that bright beauty and for whom?
It’s dusk. Countless mountains face each other in sorrow.
translated by David Hinton
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 disliking 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’ve lived in the country long enough to know its many joys.
I’m starting to feel like a child back in my old village again.
Leaving the city today, I simply leave all that dust behind,
and facing mountains and valleys, I feel them enter my eyes.
translated by David Hinton
I
Black clouds, soaring ink, nearly blot out these mountains.
White raindrops, skipping pearls, skitter wildly into the boat,
then wind comes across furling earth, scatters them away,
and below Lake-View Tower, lakewater suddenly turns to sky.
II
Setting animals loose–fish and turtles–I’m an exile out here,
but no one owns waterlilies everywhere blooming, blooming.
This lake pillows mountains, starts them glancing up and down,
and my breezy boat wanders free, drifts with an aimless moon.
translated by David Hinton
This little boat of mine, truly a lone leaf,
and beneath it, the sound of dark swells:
I keep paddling in depths of night, drunk,
pleasures of home, bed and desk,forgotten.
At dawn, when I ask about the road ahead,
I’m already past a thousand ridges rising
beyond ridges. O where am I going here,
this Way forever leaving ever returning?
Never arriving, what can we understand,
and always leaving, what’s left to explain?
translated by David Hinton
A journey of countless stages from the Southland ends
with the pale moon and dawn clouds of Huaching
and the West Wind rushing past Sunrise Pavilion
entering the tall willows it sounds like rain
translated by Red Pine
a whole life of saying, West Lake’s good.
now I come, in my official carriage
wealth and honor
. . . . . . . .floating clouds
look up, look down, the rushing years
twenty.
I come back, old white head, ancient crane
the people of the city and the suburbs
all strange, all new
who’d recognize the old coot, their master, on another day?
translated by Jerome P. Seaton
flocks of blossoms gone, yet West Lake’s good.
shattered scattered residue of red
as willow down comes misting down
the willow hangs across the wind the whole day through
the pipe song wanders off, the traveler goes
and spring spring’s emptied to my heart
I let the thin gauze curtain fall
fine rain, a mated pair of swallows, coming home
translated by Jerome P. Seaton
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 