My love’s manners in bed
are not to be discussed by me,
as mine by her
I would not credit comment upon gracefully.
Yet I ride by the margin of that lake in
the wood, the castle,
and the excitement of strongholds;
and have a small boy’s notion of doing good.
Oh well, I will say here,
knowing each man,
let you find a good wife too,
and love her as hard as you can.
The sun sets on the dike where I walk,
As I sing alone the song of “Hand-in-hand.”
Then I remember the one whose hand I once held,
And everywhere I look, spring is radiant and green.
Every night I think of you until the water clock fades;
Sadly, under the bright moon, I lean against the balcony;
I think you too feel the cold in your lonely quilt.
A short foot away, the painted hall is as deep as the sea;
In remembrance I have only your old letters to read;
When can we be together, hand in hand, in Ch’ang-an?
translated by Lois M. Fusek
The rainy Pleiads wester,
Orino plunges prone,
The stroke of midnight ceases
And I lie down alone.
The rainy Pleiads wester
And seek beyond the sea
The head that I shall dream of
That will not dream of me.
They amputated
your thighs off my hips.
As far as I’m concerned
they are all surgeons. All of them.
They dismantled us
each from the other.
As far as I’m concerned
they are all engineers. All of them.
A pity. We were such a good
and loving invention.
An airplane made from a man and wife.
Wings and everything.
We hovered a little above the earth.
We even flew a little.
Under the far-off, pale-blue sky
rows of grey roofs flash.
The wind whines in the wood
through the ribbed trees.
Mists invade a mountain village
barely visible in the distance.
The rain has chilled the dawn air.
The stream freezes, studded with fallen leaves.
Memories coming alive in tears
whisper comfortingly to my soul
that cries wildly like an infant
cut with a knife.
Wasn’t there a time
when you were happy and light-hearted?
How the voice soothes,
a salve to my bruised heart.
I cry and cry at the voice,
without shame or hate.
awake and asleep
my mind goes back to a time
your face before me
With the joy of that moment, my love
that moment when our fingers intertwine
and when our breathing blends
like steam quivering in the mouth of a volcano
With the joy of that moment, my love, that moment
when we close our eyes–to let the uproar
from a strained wire, from the depths of a precipice
collect in ourselves
With the joy of that moment, that moment
when blue stars explode behind your eyelids
when a river of fire flows down a slope
later to gush into the sky
With the joy of that moment, my love
with the joy of that wet and burning moment
when we look at one another as if for the first time
and call our names, we must embrace everything, everything
as the first heralds of a fire.
translated by Suat Karantay
Awakening spring: how many leaves!
Rustling dawn: how many branches!
Does she know the pangs of love?
Never a time she wouldn’t dance.
Pussy willows aflutter–hide white butterfly,
Tendrils hanging limp–bare yellow oriole.
All conquering beauty, perfect through and through:
Who would enjoy just the brows of her eyes?
translated by Eugene Eoyang & Irving Y.Lo
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
–the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says
we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
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 