While the autumn moon is pouring full
On a thousand night-levels among towns and villages,
There meet by chance, south of the river,
Dreaming doubters of a dream. . .
In the trees a wind has startled the birds,
And insects cower from cold in the grass;
But wayfarers at least have wine
And nothing to fear–till the morning bell.
translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu
The brocade ch’in has fifty strings: there’s no reason for it,
each string and bridge conjuring up another bloom of youth:
in a morning dream, Chuang Tzu’s confused with a butterfly,
and Emperor Wang’s death left his spring passion to a nightjar
scattered blood: moonlight on vast seas–it’s a pearl’s tear:
far off, Indigo Mountain jade smokes in warm sun: up close,
smoke vanishes: can this feeling linger even in a memory:
never anything but this moment already bewildered and lost.
translated by David Hinton
yet one more translation of one of his best known poems
In moonlight, I envied vistas of clarity,
and in pine sleep adorned green shadow.
I wrote grief-torn poems when young,
plumbed the depths of feeling when old.
Now I sit up all night practicing ch’an,
and autumn can still bring a sudden sigh,
but that’s it. Two last ties. Beyond them,
nothing anywhere holds this mind back.
translated by David Hinton
what of that thirst for wisdom when you’re
suddenly here, dead center in these waters?
translated by David Hinton
A bitter frost fell this morning
before the white shroud I cried
ordered on a hundred-li journey
what good would sorrow do
earlier in the prefecture office
I ran errands to towns in the district
leaving home without any worries
always coming back happy
now when I close my rickety gate
I hear our children crying
but a father has to go forth
even when there’s no mother at home
swallowing remorse hurts me inside
all the more in this bitter cold
in a one-person cart on a road so bleak
I look back and keep slowing down
a rising wind lashes the plain
geese cry out and fly off
in the past we traveled this road together
I never thought I’d be on it alone
translated by Red Pine
Like silk that’s been dyed
or wood that’s now ash
I recall the person I lived with
gone and not coming back
to whom I was wedded for twenty years
who respected me as if we just met
our betrothal occurred during troubled times
our separations were due to disasters
a model of gentleness and simplicity
she was courteous and always proper
but public office has no room for oneself
and my duties undercut her beauty
this morning when I entered the women’s quarters
the rooms were covered with dust
ever since this person left
whatever I touch is painful
a widower now I pass the time
wiping our children’s tears
I try to push my fantasies away
but these feelings are hard to stop
suddenly my daydreams look real
startled I begin pacing again
this heart is utterly relentless
and our house is surrounded by weeds
translated by Red Pine
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
Jade ridges and incense-veiled terraces stretch halfway to heaven
ten thousand households and mist-covered trees line the clearing river
I don’t know the monks because they’re all new
but listening to the fading bell I recall that distant year
translated by Red Pine
My dear friend nowhere in sight,
this Han River keeps flowing east.
Now, if I look for old masters here,
I find empty rivers and mountains.
translated by David Hinton
You polish words in rue-scented libraries,
and I live in bamboo-leaf gardens, a recluse
wandering every day the same winding path
home to rest in the quiet, no noise anywhere.
A bird soaring the heights can choose a tree,
but the hedge soon tangles impetuous goats.
Today, things seen becoming thoughts felt:
this is where you start forgetting the words.
translated by David Hinton
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
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 