My sorrow is perfectly visible
to spring, that painted hussy
but she visits my river pavilion
as if it meant nothing at all
encourages the flowers
to open shamelessly
then persuades the orioles
to sing themselves into a frenzy.
translated by David Young
At the south window, my back to a lamp,
I sit. Wind scatters sleet into darkness.
In lone depths of silent village night:
the call of a late goose in falling snow.
translated by David Hinton
Your bones have long since turned to dust,
My heart for just as long to ashes!
A hundred -year life has no end!
For three nights you’ve come to me in a dream.
The flowing waters have passed and are gone,
The floating clouds, where are they now?
As I sit watching the morning sun come up,
A flock of birds by twos returns.
translated by William H. Nienhauser
Evening swallows keep twittering by my curtain,
Pairs of sparrows squabble, stir up dust on the steps;
The wind closes my wicker gate at sundown,
Quietly the flowers fall one by one, but no one comes.
translated by Dell B. Hales
Suddenly aware that the good year is almost over,
Sitting down, I look at the chilling leaves fall.
I cannot even be like the decayed grasses
That whirl up and transform into fireflies.
translated by C.H. Wang
Chill wind stirs at horizon’s end:
My friend, what news?
When will the geese arrive?
Autumn swells river and stream.
Writers abhor worldly success;
Mountain demons like to entrap us.
Perhaps we should talk with the abused soul,
By sending a poem to the River Mi-lo.
translated by Eugene Eoyang
The Brocade City might be a place for pleasure,
But it’s far better to hurry home.
The road to Shu is hard, harder than climbing to the heavens.
Sideways I look westward and heave a long sigh.
translated b y Irving Y. Lo
I am a man who’s made no name, already I’ve grown old,
Wandering hungry three years on barren mountain roads,
In Ch’ang-an the ministers are all young men;
Wealth and fame must be earned before a man grows old.
In the mountains here are scholars who knew me long ago.
We only think of the good old days, our hearts full of pain.
Alas! This is my seventh song, oh! with sorrow I end the refrain,
Looking up to the wide sky where the white sun rushes on.
translated by Geoffrey Waters
In the past I was glad to come home
but to sadness I now return
entering our closed sunless room
I stifle my grief and write the epitaph
I lift the dark curtain in pain
startled by a cold desolate breeze
our younger daughter doesn’t realize
she still comes into the courtyard to play
I sigh every day feeling older
dazed by the transience of life
my relatives urge me to eat
at the table my tears fall in vain
translated by Red Pine
My empty rooms are bleak on a rainy day with fire banned
I sit alone and listen to orioles by the river
I’ve had the wine and seen the flowers but think about my cousins
Cold Food Day on Tuling the grass by now is green
translated by Red Pine
NOTE: Cold Food was the name given to a 3 day period in April when fires were banned.
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 