Drank tonight at Eastern Slope, sobered up, drank again;
got home somewhere around third watch.
The houseboy snores like thunder;
I bang the gate but nobody answers.
Leaning on my stick, I listen to river sounds.
Always it irks me–this body not my own.
When can I forget the world’s business?
Night far gone, wind still, river creped in ripples:
I’ll leave here in a little boat,
on far waters spend the years remaining.
translated by Burton Watson
My bedroom door overlooks a jade stream
the stillness of dawn drives cares away
a fine rain reaches deserted woods
ripples spread across the water
nothing else happens all day
in the mountains the sound of an axe
you’ve lived amid dust and noise too long
come loosen those troublesome hat strings awhile
translated by Red Pine
I swept the snow from my secluled path
living retired I look for old friends
I still have some solstice wine left
and plum blossoms are early this spring
how long shall we wander outside the east wall
and which day along that winding stream
take some time off and spend it on pleasure
don’t wait until you’re wearing new robes
translated by Red Pine
Don’t sigh about the road beyond the city gate
or that you won’t be coming back in a carriage
your brocade robes are there in your trunk
along with your books from rue-scented halls
with red rice grown in a well-watered land
and whitefish fresh from the Yangtze
your breakfasts can also be offerings
what good is longing for fortune and fame
translated by Red Pine
From the traveler, singing; from the field, weeping—both spur sorrow.
Fires in the distance, dipping stars move slowly toward extinction.
Am I waiting up for New Year’s? Aching eyes won’t close.
No one here speaks my dialect: I long for home.
A double quilt and my feet still cold—the frost must be heavy;
my head feels light—I washed it and the hair is getting thin.
I thank the flickering torch that doesn’t refuse
to keep me company on a lonely boat through the night.
translated by Burton Watson
Ten years after we parted
we meet on the shores of Huaihai
recalling our days in Loyang
we discuss perfecture colleagues
and facing cups of fine wine
wish our white hair was new
where are you hurrying off to
braving the dust and wind of the road
translted by Red Pine
From the side, a whole range; from the end, a single peak;
far, near, high, low, no two parts alike.
Why can’t I tell the true shape of Lu-shan?
Because I myself am in the mountain.
translated by Burton Watson
Crafting, Cooking & Journalling through Life
la condivisione del dolore è un dono di amore da parte di chi lo fa e di chi lo riceve
A picture tells a thousand stories!
Epistles, Thoughts, and Concerns
Here, Now and Somewhere else
Moda-Creative thinking
Lucania la mia ragione di vita
Deal with the faults of others as gently as your own.
....But if you stay in my lane long enough, you'll experience my emotions...
Daily wind
Welcome to my world
Gesundheit - Rezepte - Reisen
Blog de literatura e artes
Urban art and culture
We're all on a road to somewhere.
My poetry is my religion.
poetry by Robert Ford
Recetas caseras y fáciles
