The garden’s desert, crumbling walls, as willows green again.
Even the sweet song of spring’s a lament.
Nothing of what was, but the moon above the river,
moon that shone on a pretty face in the palace of the king of Wu.
translated by J.P. Seaton
Chinese poet
Coming Home by Tu Mu
The children pull at my coat and inquire,
“You’ve come home, oh, why so late?
Who were you fighting with all these years,
to win that head of white hair?”
translated by J.P. Seaton
Metaphor by Chiao Jan
My Tao: at the root, there’s no me. . .
yet I don’t despise worldly men.
And now I’ve been in the city. . .
so I know I really mean that.
translated by J.P. Seaton
poem 2 by Wang Fan-chih
Having power need not warp your heart and mind,
but if you cheat folks, you put yourself in danger.
Just look at the fire on the wood:
once it’s burned up the fuel, the fire’s gone, too.
translated by J.P. Seaton
poem 1 by Wang Fan-chih
Nobody lives to be a hundred.
But they try to write rhymes that’ll last a thousand.
Forge an iron gate to fence out the demons:
demons watch, clapping, and laughing.
translated by J.P. Seaton
Off for the rest of the week to Istanbul and traveling without a computer, just my phone, which I refuse to use for anythng other than phonecalls & some text messaging. So I will not be back until next week. Thus, I leave this poem as my last post until then. Enjoy your days if the weather wherever you are is as lovely as here, and if not, hope you make the best of it. The poem: Gazing at the Moon from South Tower by Chiao Jan
Moon tonight, and everyone’s moon-gazing,
but I’m alone, and in love with this tower.
Threads of cloud are shattered in the stream:
trailing willow is the picture of late fall.
As it brightens, you can see a thousand peaks.
Far off, the veins of ridges flow.
Mountain passes. . .
will I ever climb again?
I stand alone,
and let the border sadness rise.
translated by J.P. Seaton
Spring Day III by Yuan Mei
A hermit’s gate is made of the stuff of brooms,
but sweep as it may, the clouds won’t stay away.
So up through the clouds, for sun I came,
with wine, to this high tower.
At evening, the sun declined
to come on down the mountain with me.
“Tomorrow,” I ask,
“you coming, or not?”
translated by J.P. Seaton
On a Painting of a White-Haired Old Man by Yuan Mei
Who’d paint a white-haired ancient?
I smile. I’d rather be a duck.
If you’re born with your head snow-white already,
no one can laugh and shout, “You’re getting old!”
translated by J.P. Seaton
Moored at Maple Bridge by Ching An
Frost white across the river, waters reaching toward the sky.
All I’d hoped for’s lost in autumn’s darkening.
I cannot sleep, a man adrift, a thousand miles
alone, among the reed flowers: but the moonlight fills the boat.
translated J.P. Seaton
from Four Verses, #4 by Chang Yang-hao
I live here retired, apart
from the dust of the vulgar.
Clouds and mist, it’s peaceful.
A thousand mountains’ green surround the hut:
I’m the old man in the painting.
Look at this limitless beauty. . .
Could I put it down
and serve again?
translated by J.P. Seaton
Leonard Durso 