I had always heard of Lake Tung-t’ing–
And now at last I have climbed to this tower.
With Wu country to the east of me and Ch’u to the south,
I can see heaven and earth endlessly floating.
. . .But no word has reached me from kin or friends.
I am old and sick and alone with my boat.
North of this wall there are wars and mountains—
And here by the rail how can I help crying?
translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu
Our two worlds share this autumn night
we see the same River of Stars
a leaf drops from a towering paulownia
thoughts of going home fill my empty rooms
I worry about the hardships of the people
then too I have my own minor ills
I won’t be leaving anytime soon
but my hairline has already slipped away
translated by Red Pine
Those who have relied on poetry for a living
Since ancient times have never gotten fat.
This old man, hungry from poetry, is not bitter,
But your suffering tears fall like rain.
translated by Stephen Owen
At Incense Pavilion below East Peak
the flowers in the mist were from another world
I held up a lantern on a deep mountain night
and pulled back the curtain on a lakeland fall
the swans stayed behind on the walls
the Dipper and the Ox spent the night in the window
the road to Heaven seemed so close again
I dreamed I was traveling with clouds
translated by Red Pine
Li Po on board, ready to push off,
suddenly heard the tramping and singing on the bank.
Peach Flower Pool a thousand feet deep
is shallower than the love of Wang Lun who sees me off.
translated by Burton Watson
It’s been so long since I headed for East Mountain—
how many times have the roses bloomed?
White clouds have scattered themselves away—
and this bright moon—whose house is it setting on?
translated by Burton Watson
In what house, the jade flute that sends these dark notes drifting,
scattering on the spring wind that fills Lo-yang?
Tonight if we should hear the willow-breaking song,
who could help but long for the gardens of home?
translated by Burton Watson
note: people break off willow wands to give as gifts when parting.
They say you’re staying in a mountain temple,
In Hang-chou–or is it Yüeh-chou?
In the wind and grime of war, how long since we parted!
At Chiang-han, bright autumns waste away.
While my shadow rests by monkey-loud trees,
my soul whirls off to where shell-born towers rise.
Next year on floods of spring I’ll go downriver,
to the white clouds at the end of the east I’ll look for you!
translated by Burton Watson
We send you home to a grave on Stone Tower Mountain;
through the green green of pine and cypress, mourners’ carriages return.
Among white clouds we’ve laid your bones–it is ended forever;
only the mindless waters remain, flowing down to the world of men.
translated by Burton Watson
We dismount; I give you wine
and ask, where are you off to?
You answer, nothing goes right!–
back home to lie down by Southern Mountain.
Go then–I’ll ask no more–
there’s no end to white clouds there.
translated by Burton Watson
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 