Trees surround a wide pool, the moon casts many shadows;
Beyond the wind-blown vine, in the village and on the bank,
the pounding of wash and the sounds of the flute.
In the west pavilion, the kingfisher quilt leaves a fragrance that fades;
All through the night, my sorrow turns toward the wilted lotus.
translated by Eugene Eoyang & Irving Y. Lo
Suddenly I’m governing Wu Prefecture
and suddenly chrysanthemums are blooming
as I start to think of my garden back home
happily a group of guests arrives
translated by Red Pine
Where the river winds I reflect on my travels
a traveler lost in reminiscence again
the moon last night was so lovely
I’ve come back to see it in the waves
birds won’t roost where they feel afraid
or a fragrance spread where it’s cold
when will I hold someone’s hand again
the flowers overhead look like sleet
translated by Red Pine
I never had wine to drink, and now
my empty cup’s all depths of spring
wine crowned with ant-fluff foam,
but how will I ever taste it again?
Delicacies crowd altars before me,
and at my side, those I love grieve.
I try to look–it’s eyes of darkness.
I try to speak–a mouth of silence.
I once slept beneath high ceilings,
but a waste village of weeds is next:
leaving my gate behind, I’ll set out
and never again find my way back.
translated by David Hinton
This poem is for Natıg Damırov whose brother Orhan died in a car crash 10 days ago in Azerbaijan.
Birds have vanished into deep skies.
A last cloud drifts away, all idleness.
Inexhaustible, this mountain and I
gaze at each other, it alone remaining.
translated by David Hinton
Alone, I savor wildflowers tucked in along the creek,
and there’s a yellow oriole singing in treetop depths.
Spring floods come rain-swollen and wild at twilight.
No one here at the ferry, a boat drifts across of itself.
translated by David Hinton
Departing at dawn, carriage bells ajingle–
The traveler grieves for his ancestral home.
A cock’s crow, a thatched teahouse in the moonlight,
Human footprints on the frosted bridge planking,
Betel leaves fallen by the mountain road,
Orange blossoms bright on the station wall–
And so I dream a dream of Ch’ang-an,
Where ducks and geese settle, crowding the pond.
translated by William R. Schultz
Here, next the mountain, the cold comes early,
Crisp and clear, the air in the thatched hut.
Barren trees admit the sun to the window,
The cistern, brimming full, is still and silent.
Fallen nuts mark the monkeys’ trail,
Dry leaves rustle to the passage of deer.
A plain zither–an untrammeled heart–
Hollowly accompanies the clear spring at night.
translated by William R. Schultz
Astride a mount pawing misty sedge grass,
How can one be resentful of the vernal spring
Where butterfly wings dust the flowers at dawn
And the backs of crows glisten everywhere in the setting sun;
Where lush willows compete with the fragrant sash,
And melancholy hills tighten kingfisher eyebrows.
The feeling of separation, what is there to say
But that the heart is an endless river of stars.
translated by William R. Schultz
For thirty years an itinerant official
I no longer recognized the fields
but since it was my day to bathe
I traveled back to our village
the rains had stopped and the mountains were clear
The wind was warm and plants were thriving
the mountain-fed streams were deep and pure
the forests beginning to dance with light
but the bamboo was looking a bit sad
and the garden was nothing but weeds
and I was startled by the gray at your temples
and the sight of where we once played
and the heartbreaking news of departures
and the changes that had ravaged this place
I wanted to speak but who would care
and now I’m worrying about reports again
I’d be better off giving up this worldly career
fortune and fame are so hollow
compared to finally being with you
here in my declining and future years
translated by Red Pine
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 