From this high up I can see in all directions
from the window I can make out a robe and a belt
a mountain in the clouds
a river beyond the plains
summer foliage forming a curtain
autumn lotus leaves turning into a canopy
but whenever I look toward the capital
my heart is like a flag in the wind
translated by Red Pine
River traffic keeps heading southwest
the ocean-bound current surges northwest
I see boats on the horizon sailing home
and trees along the river wrapped in clouds
thinking about this trip exhausts and deflates me
I’ve journeyed alone so many times
but it meets my need for a salary
and accords my interest in eremitic realms
cut off henceforth from dust and noise
surely I’ll find what brings my heart joy
although I lack a panther’s guise
I will disappear at last into the misty southern peaks
translated by Red Pine
Green grass is spreading like fine silk thread
even ordinary trees are decked out in pink
it doesn’t matter you haven’t returned
by the time you do spring will be gone
translated by Red Pine
Days and months never take their time.
The four seasons keep bustling each other
away. Cold winds churn lifeless branches.
Fallen leaves cover long paths. We’re frail,
crumbling more with each turning year.
Our temples turn white early, and once
your hair flaunts that bleached streamer,
the road ahead starts closing steadily in.
This house is an inn awaiting travelers,
and I yet another guest leaving. All this
leaving and leaving–where will I ever
end up? My old home’s on South Mountain.
translated by David Hinton
Color infusing autumn chrysanthemums
exquisite, I pick dew-bathed petals,
float them on that forget-your-cares
stuff. Even my passion for living apart
grows distant. I’m alone here, and still
the wine jar soon fills cups without me.
Everything at rest, dusk: a bird calls,
returning to its forest home. Chanting,
I settle into my breath. Somehow, on this
east veranda, I’ve found my life again.
translated by David Hinton
Days and months never take their time.
The four seasons keep bustling each other
away. Cold winds churn lifeless branches.
Fallen leaves cover long paths. We’re frail,
crumbling more with each turning year.
Our temples turn white early, and once
your hair flaunts that bleached streamer,
the road ahead starts closing steadily in.
This house is an inn awaiting travelers,
and I yet another guest leaving. All this
leaving and leaving–where will I ever
end up? My old home’s on South Mountain.
translated by David Hinton
It’s all an empty boat, oars dangling free,
but return goes on without end. The year
begins, and suddenly, in a moment’s glance,
midyear stars come back around, bright
sun and moon bringing all things to such
abundance. North woods lush, blossoming,
rain falls in season from hallowed depths.
Dawn opens. Summer breezes rise. No one
comes into this world without leaving soon.
It’s our inner pattern, which never falters.
At home here in what lasts, I wait out life.
A bent arm my pillow, I keep empty whole.
Follow change through rough and smooth,
and life’s never up or down. If you can see
how much height fills whatever you do, why
climb Hua or Sung, peaks of immortality?
translated by David Hinton
I
Scribing lines as it goes, water poured on flat ground
runs east or west or north or south as it flows:
human life is also fated. Why then sigh
as you go forward, or melancholy, sit?
Pour wine to fete thyself, raise up the cup
and do not deign to sing “Hard Traveling.”
Heart-and-mind; they are not wood-and-stone. . .
How might one not bear pain? And if I know
fear as I stagger on, I’ll never deign to speak it.
II
Sir, don’t you see? The grass along the riverbank?
In the winter it withers, come spring it springs again
to line all pathways.
Today, the sun is set, completely gone, already.
Tomorrow morning won’t it rise again?
But when in time shall my way be just so. . .
Once gone, I’m gone forever, banished to the Yellow Springs, below.
In human life the woes are many and the satisfactions few:
so seize the moment when you’re in your prime.
If one of us achieve a noble aim, the rest may take joy in it.
But best keep cash for wine on the bedside table.
Whether my deeds be scribed on bamboo and silk
is surely beyond my knowing.
Life or death, honor or shame? These I leave to High Heaven.
translated by J.P. Seaton
Nights are long when she can’t sleep;
the bright moon glitters like a bangle.
She thinks she hears an answer to a prayer. . .
“Yes. . .,” she murmurs, into empty air.
translated by J.P. Seaton
Don’t you see how grass on the riverbank
in winter withers and dies, yet in spring floods the road?
Don’t you see how the sun above the walls
evaporates to nothing at dusk
yet tomorrow at dawn is reborn?
But how can we achieve that?
When dead we’re dead forever, down in Yellow Springs.
Life has lavish bitterness, is stingy with joy,
and only the young are filled with endless zeal.
So let’s just meet whenever we can
and always keep wine money ready by our beds.
Who cares for rank and fame inscribed on bamboo and silk?
Life, death, acclaim, obscurity–leave them to heaven.
translated by Tony Barnstone & Chou Ping
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 