Mountains shine through forest breaks, bamboo hides the wall;
withered grass by small ponds, jumbled cicada cries.
White birds again and again cut across the sky;
faint scent of lotus shining pink on the water.
Beyond the village,
by old town walls,
with goosefoot cane I stroll where late sunlight turns.
Thanks to rain that fell at the third watch last night
I get another cool day in this floating world.
translated by Burton Watson
Sweep the floor, burn incense, close the door to sleep;
a mat marked like water, curtains like mist.
I dream a guest comes, wake wondering where I am,
prop open the west window on waves that meet the sky.
translated by Burton Watson
Long since afraid of tumbling like windblown thistledown
away, you hide in your cap, never dare leave. Spring wind
scatters you away, but never lasts long. And even thin,
flare incandescent beneath bright moon and stars and stars.
translated by David Hinton
Old age brings white hair. Heaven’s loom of origins works
like that. People never denounce summer’s endless green:
they love spring blossoms and those long days that follow.
But soon autumn leaves fall, and did ancients outlive that?
translated by David Hinton
We set out, drift and wander wherever our beguiled whims take us,
no need to pretend our walking-sticks might meet at some bridge.
When ch’an mind opens, you can’t ignore all this quiet emptiness.
And even old, with our crystalline bones of Tao, why fear the cold?
translated by David Hinton
It’s been ages since I visited city markets,
and I’m past worry over disappointments.
It’s quiet. I gather blossoms, and awaiting
sage-masters, drink clouds at their source.
translated by David Hinton
Across a thousand hundred-twist trails through forest hills,
a painting’s wind-mist silvers autumn into a single color,
nothing left but the beauty of wandering out impulse here.
Red poplar-tears: what grief scatters them across streams?
translated by David Hinton
Things aren’t other than they are.
I am today whoever I was long ago,
and if I can be described, it’s as this
pure likeness of things themselves.
translated by David Hinton
It’s all mirage illusion, like cinnabar-and-azure paintings, this
human world. We wander here for a time, then vanish into dust.
Things aren’t other than they are. That’s all anyone can know.
Don’t ask if this thing I am today is the thing I was long ago.
translated by David Hinton
Who ever lives our life’s full hundred years? It’s the body’s
grief. And gazing through spring wind, your eyes weep tears.
Birds in song, open blossoms–everything has its thoughts.
Don’t forget the poetry in mountain cherry and pied wagtail.
translated by David Hinton
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 