painted skiff with a load of wine, and West Lake’s good.
lively music from pipes and strings
wine cups quickly passed along
secure afloat on calming waves
slip off
to drunken stupor
the clouds float on beneath the moving boat
sky and the water, pure and fresh
look up, look down, stay, or go on
seems there’s another heaven
in this Lake
translated by Jerome P. Seaton
The water lilies of summer are gone. They are no more.
Nothing remains but their umbrella leaves.
The chrysanthemums of Autumn are fading.
Their leaves are white with frost.
The beauty of the year is only a solemn memory.
Soon it will be winter and
Oranges turn gold and the citrons green.
translated by Kenneth Rexroth
The pear blossoms are pure
White against the blue green willows.
The willow cotton blows in the wind.
The city is full of flying pear flowers.
The petals fallen on the balcony look like snow.
How many Spring Festivals are we born to see?
translated by Kenneth Rexroth
I lift my head and watch
The phoenix and the snowy swan
Cross the heavens in their migrations.
Wealth, office, position,
After all these years, mean nothing to me.
The foundered horse no longer
Hopes to travel a thousand miles.
In exile, in autumn,
I grow lazy and indifferent.
In history men have
Always been treated like this.
I am forbidden to visit the Western Lake.
There is no place else I want to go.
The wise man, no matter how he is treated,
Knows that Heaven does nothing without reason.
But nobody can stop me
From writing poems about the
Mountains and rivers of Wu.
translated by Kenneth Rexroth
The trees are brilliant with flowers
And the hills are green.
The sun is about to set.
Over the immense plain
A green carpet of grass
Stetches to infinity.
The passersby do not care
That Spring is about to end.
Carelessly they come and go
Before the pavilion,
Trampling the fallen flowers.
translated by Kenneth Rexroth
The East Wind gently spreads her celestial glow
the moon slips behind her veil of perfumed mist
afraid this flower won’t stay up much longer
I light a tall candle to view her crimson face
translated by Red Pine
Last year when I accompanied you
As far as the Yang Chou Gate,
The snow was flying, like white willow cotton.
This year, Spring has come again,
And the willow cotton is like snow.
But you have not come back.
Alone before the open window,
I raise my wine cup to the shining moon.
The wind, moist with evening dew,
Blows the gauze curtains.
Maybe Chang-O the moon goddess,
Will pity this single swallow
And join us together with a cord of light
That reaches beneath the painted eaves of your home.
translated by Kenneth Rexroth
I raise my cup and invite
The moon to come down from the
Sky. I hope she will accept
Me. I raise my cup and ask
The branches, heavy with flowers,
To drink with me. I wish them
Long life and promise never
To pick them. In company
With the moon and the flowers,
I get drunk, and none of us
Ever worries about good
Or bad. How many people
Can comprehend our joy? I
Have wine and moon and flowers.
Who else do I want for drinking companions?
translated by Kenneth Rexroth
The few minutes of a Spring night
Are worth ten thousand pieces of gold.
The perfume of the flowers is so pure.
The shadows of the moon are so black.
In the pavilion the voices and flutes are so high and light.
In the garden a hammock rocks
In the night so deep, so profound.
translated by Kenneth Rexroth
Everybody wants an intelligent son.
My intelligence only got me into difficulties.
I want only a brave and simple boy,
Who, without trouble or resistance,
Will rise to the highest offices.
translated by Kenneth Rexroth
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.
An 'erm, what I doing with my life?' cabaret.
Artist by choice, photographer by default, poet and author 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 