Dew on the hidden orchid,
like crying eyes.
Nothing ties a love knot,
flowers in mist I cannot bear to cut.
Grass like the carriage cushion,
pines like the carriage roof,
the wind is her skirt,
the waters, her pendants.
A carriage with oiled sides
awaits in the evening.
Cold azure candle
struggles to give light.
At the foot of West Mound
wind blows the rain.
translated by Stephen Owen
I’m still lingering on, my climb unfinished,
as the sun sinks away west of peaks galore.
translated by David Hinton
Spring sleep, not yet awake to dawn,
I am full of birdsongs.
Throughout the night the sounds of wind and rain
Who knows what flowers fell.
translated by Gary Snyder
An icy scar in the afterglow sends off the setting sun;
A hook so tiny as to startle fishes from their dreams,
Passionate souls would still say it’s perfect and round;
Just the barest hint of a woman’s brow
And suddenly it’s the Goddess of the Moon!
Enveloping the steps, the night air as thin as mist;
Flowers’ shadows lightly traced on the curtain.
I lean against the railing, no need to sleep late.
Just gazing up into the yellow dusk–
One glimpse of her overwhelms me with longing.
translated by Irving Lo
In the evening I gaze out from atop a high tower;
The sun’s radiance in the forest has been clear all day.
On Lonely Mountain the autumn garrison is cold,
Up the three branches of the Mao River the night tides are born.
Fisherman’s fires appear out in the main current,
Gull-topped waves stay bright all night long.
It’s time for our boat to stop for a moment:
The misty moon is just too filled with feeling.
translated by William H. Nienhauser
Born to such hapless times, I mourn this sorrow here in vain.
translated by Irving Lo & Kenneth Yasuda
Green water reflects scales of bright red;
Weeds and algae appear as clear as in a mirror.
When the fisherman rapped on his boat,
I thought it was petals falling.
translated by Yin-nan Chang
Of mountain scenery, the Southern Screen is best;
Its atmosphere misty, half is hidden, half is there.
A small skiff moors in the winding pond;
Pelicans rest under withered willow trees.
Clouds rise up and a thousand peaks are thrown together;
The sky clears and a single pagoda stands alone.
With inspiration come thoughts of distant views;
Melodies from a Tartar flute fill West Lake.
translated by Yin-nan Chang
But what avails the common folk?
Under a dark moon, fireflies are drifting aimlessly;
The west wind sobs
Amidst ghost fires here and there.
But it hurts even more as I look toward the south:
Across the river, innumerable green-peaked hills!
translated by Irving Lo
The river’s waves reflect a bent willow,
Unbothered by the darkening sky at dusk.
If this tree can be said to hold a grievance,
Who hasn’t felt the pangs of lost love?
I’m listless and the road home for a traveler is far;
And autumn winds rise after our leave-taking.
One day sporting a young girl’s pearl coiffure,
This morning I dread to look into the mirror bright.
translated by Hsin-sheng C. Kao
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.
A virtual cabaret of songs, stories and questionable life choices.
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 