A broken moon hangs from a gaunt parasol tree.
The water clock has stopped, and people hush into sleep.
Who sees a hermit like me passing alone
like a shadow of a flying wild goose?
Startled and soaring off, I look back
with grief no one understands,
going from branch to branch, unwilling to settle,
and landing at last on a cold and desolate shoal.
translated by Tony Barnstone & Chou Ping
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
All dark mystery, I embrace it replete,
alone, night thinning into morning.
In this empty library, I face tall trees,
sparse rain soaking through rustling
leaves. Nesting swallows flutter, wet.
Orchid petals blur across stone steps.
It’s quiet. Memories come, and grief
suddenly caught and buffeted in wind.
translated by David Hinton
I
It’s autumn again. Courtyard trees rustle.
Deep in shadow, insects grieve on and on.
Alone, facing the upper library, I doze,
listening to cold rain clatter in the dark,
window-lattice now and then in the wind
trembling, lamp left failing on the wall.
Grief and sorrow, a lifetime remembered
this far away–all abandoned to the night.
II
Frost and dew spread away–thick, cold.
Star River swings back around, radiant.
Come a thousand niles, north wind rises
past midnight, startling geese. Branches
whisper. Icy leaves fall. And such clarity
in isolate depths of quiet, fulling-stones
grieve. I gaze out through empty space,
tangles of the heart all cold scattered ash.
translated by David Hinton
horns in the night
the chanting continues
so much anger
at what cannot be undone
death toll mounts
while one is torn with grief
silent prayers
shouting protests
neither brings back the dead
nor brings comfort to the living
the fate we face
raging in the night
at what we are powerless
to change
With incense burning, I kneel in prayer,
a lump of grief stuck in my heart.
Under a sliced moon the rain moans as it falls,
a lump of grief stuck in my heart.
translated by Jaihiun Kim & Ronald B. Hatch
In the past I saw them as strangers
but now when I think
my love is buried there,
I feel close to those Saho hills
translated by Hiroaki Sato & Burton Watson
And this
is all there is–
when my love and I
counted on a thousand years
translated by Hiroaki Sato & Burton Watson
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.
Erm, what am I doing with my life?
Artist by choice, photographer by default, poet 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 