Through Tungting Lake in the middle of fall
the waters of the Hsiao and Hsiang flow north
but home is a thousand-mile dream away
and a guest greets dawn with sorrow
there’s no need to open a book
far better to visit an inn
Ch’ang-an and Loyang are full of old friends
but when will we join them again
translated by Red Pine
I raise the curtain and go out
To watch the moon. Leaning on the
Balcony, I breathe the evening
Wind from the west, heavy with the
Odors of decaying Autumn.
The rose jade of the river
Blends with the green jade of the void.
Hidden in the grass a cricket chirps.
Hidden in the sky storks cry out.
I turn over and over in
My heart the memories of
Other days. Tonight as always
There is no one to share my thoughts.
translated by Kenneth Rexroth
Leaves and flowers are never rated the same:
Flowers put into pots of gold, leaves turn to dust.
Still there are the green foliage and the red blooms.
Folded, stretched out, open or closed: all naturally beautiful.
These flowers, these leaves, long mirror each other’s glory:
When their greens pale, their reds fade–it’s more than one can bear.
translated by Eugene Eoyang & Irving Y. Lo
Ascending, I left noisy earth behind,
Ascending, I passed through sea clouds and mountains clouds.
Ascending, I met the tranquil blue sky,
Ascending, I entered the freedom of high altitude.
But altitude is merely empty space.
My heart falls back to the busy, disordered human world.
The upper air is clear, uncontaminated,
Yet indifferent as ice, without human warmth.
There is endless isolation and quiet,
Yet no irksome jealousy or deception.
Although thinking isn’t prohibited,
There is no heart-to-heart talk with friends,
No path strewn with flowers for me to walk,
No fertile fields to work with plow or sickle.
A seat belt shackles me into my armchair,
This cagelike freedom is stifling my feelings.
Let me go back to earth,
Where grief–such as it is–claims half of life;
The other half is cheerful laughter, fiery hope
Surpassing what’s in the sky, more beautiful than dreams.
translated by Fang Dai, Dennis Ding, & Edward Morin
Believe me, poetry itself is a kind of sunlight
No substance has been found anywhere in the cosmos
That can break the wings of poetry.
Here’s a chance at last to meet one another,
The river in Shenzhen chuckles merrily
The sky sheds joyous tears.
Though we’ve never met before,
We can love each other with brotherly sincerity,
As if we’d lived in the same family
Ten thousand years ago.
Then, believe me, after a hundred thousand years,
We’ll still be inseparable.
Yes, there is a continual interweaving of poetry’s sunlight
While poetry’s sun and our hearts
Burn together
Warming and illuminating the cold world.
translated by Fang Dai, Dennis Ding, & Edward Morin
I’m not the water of the Yangtze River
But the yearning tears of the Snowy Mountains.
Drop by drop, day and night, they drip and flow
Then rush into the ocean that I long for.
Since my heart is betrothed to a distant place,
That’s where my ideal is.
I’m not afraid of high mountains and isolated roads,
For I must seek my ocean.
I’m not afraid of zig-zags,
Falls and tumbles.
The pain of yearning
Lasts longer than the pain of seeking.
Bright sun, don’t argue me into staying.
Steep cliffs, don’t block my strides.
Betraying my ideal, accepting other situations
Would drive me stark mad.
Though I’m unsure which road leads there,
I know where my ideal resides.
Even if I have to make a thousand detours
And suffer a thousand setbacks, I will never lose heart.
translated by Fang Dai, Dennis Ding, & Edward Morin
is the oyster’s wound–
A rough, hard obstruction
Intrudes into its tender body.
Month by month, year after year,
Wrapped in layer upon adhesive layer,
It becomes round, glistening, smooth, glossy.
Crystalized pain, a tear shed by the sea,
Yet all the mundane treasure it!
I sense that it still wears the salt smell of the ocean,
That this glistening teardrop bears
The grief of sun and moon, stars and clouds.
translated by Fang Dai, Dennis Ding, & Edward Morin
Don’t gaze upon her as water
To extinguish your grief
For she’s oil poured onto fire
She can make bright people clever
And fools even more foolish
translated by Fang Dai, Dennis Ding, & Edward Morin
One morning I asked the umbrella
Whether it would rather bake in the sun
Or stand soaking in the rain
The umbrella answered with a smile,
“Those things don’t bother me.”
I kept on questioning,
“Then what is your concern?”
The umbrella said,
“I keep thinking
On rainy days, ‘Don’t let people’s clothes get wet,’
And on sunny days, ‘Be a cloud that shades the head.'”
Together then
In our own languages
Let’s steadfastly
Pour out our deepest belief
translated by Fang Dai, Dennis Ding, & Edward Morin
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 