I only hear a bell beyond the mist,
can’t see the mist-wrapped temple.
The man secluded there never stops walking–
dew from the grass soaks his straw sandals–
nothing but the mountaintop moon
each night to light his comings and goings.
translated by Burton Watson
Pleading eyebrows, intoxicating eyes!
When I first looked at you, I knew my heart was lost.
Do you remember that time in the west–
your billowing, cloudlike hair,
your best silk stockings, your lilac tongue?
You said to me, “When was I treated so well?”
But before the clouds and rain,
east winds blew everything away.
I’m grieving still,
but heaven doesn’t hear.
translated by Sam Hamill
Faint clouds caress the mountains
where blue sky enters dry grass.
From the watchtower, a lone horn sounds.
Suddenly, I want to stop my little boat
and share a farewell cup of wine.
Our time together was a glimpse of paradise.
But it is futile to remember—
only the mist remains.
translated by Sam Hamill
Rain brings flowers to this road each spring,
flowers to paint the hills with colors.
I hike along a secret steam
Among a thousand yellow orioles.
Clouds take shapes of dragon and snake,
soaring, turning in the air.
I lie in wisteria shade, so drunk
I don’t even know directions.
translated by Sam Hamill
This is my third Cold Food Festival
since I was exiled to Huang-chou.
Each parting spring, each year, I grieve.
Nevertheless, each passes–no regret.
This year there’s pestilential rain,
the past two months dark as autumn.
I lie still, listening to cherry blossoms fall
into snow, pink and growing muddy.
Of what steals things in the dark,
the strangest arrives at midnight:
as though a young man went to bed
only to wake and find his hair turned white.
translated by Sam Hamill
Hair whiter still, I ache to see those long-ago northlands,
but keep to this refuge: goosefoot staff, windblown trees.
Pity the poor moon: all that bright beauty, and for whom?
It’s dusk. Countless mountains face each other in sorrow.
translated by David Hinton
Knowing lifetimes are like dream, I search for nothing now.
Searching for nothing, a mind is perfectly empty, perfectly
quiet, and so deep in dream it traces borderlands of dream
clear through river and shoreline sands to the end of dream.
translated by David Hinton
Faint shadow, a house, and traces of rain.
In courtyard depths, the gate’s still closed
past noon. That lazy, I gaze at moss until
its green-azure comes seeping into robes.
translated by David Hinton
Getting this old isn’t much fun,
and it’s worse stuck in bed, sick.
I draw water and arrange flowers,
comforted by their scents adrift,
scents adrift, gone in a moment.
And how much longer for me?
Cut flowers and this long-ago I:
it’s so easy forgetting each other.
translated by David Hinton
Morning fire, sunlit window, a bowl of rice gruel: mirror
quiet of a pond no fish troubles, we face each other, then
leave sage temples and mountain forests far behind, our
farewell a ch’an sky, its clarity a place we dwell together.
translated by David Hinton
Sarah Torribio and her right brain. Music. Musings. Writing. Style.
Fine Arts
Life, love and destiny.
4TheRecord is dedicated primarily to Ausmusic from all eras and most genres, we will explore the dynamics of the creative process, and reveal the great drama, lyricism, musicality, and emotion behind each classic song.
Fii schimbarea pe care vrei sa o vezi in lume!
Moments de vie, fragments de textes et quelques notes...
Unleashing the beauty of creativity
there's nothing like stories
quiet moments in nature
Art and Literature Beyond Borders
A bird's eye view of St. George, Utah
Keep on Reading
Chronicling an ever-changing city through faded and forgotten artifacts
I read, rant and write ;)
Sono una donna libera. Nel mio blog farete un viaggio lungo e profondo nei pensieri della mente del cuore e dell anima.
The Green Lizard Log
Leonard Durso 