more gone
here there
everywhere
in a war
without end
and heaven’s tears
fall this morning
on a people
in mourning
mourning
remembering my mother on the anniversary of her death
there
in the ER
you shivering
that thin blanket
they could spare
covering you
no matter how much
my voice pleaded
5 hours passed
before your doctor came
and they wheeled you
behind closed doors
to die unseen
by me
your wedding ring
still clutched
in my hand
where you insisted
I take it
and tears
still cloud my eyes
remembering
Grieving on the Way to Fuping by Wei Ying-wu
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
Lamenting My Loss by Wei Ying-wu
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
Returning Home After a Trip by Wei Ying-wu
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
thinking of yet one more friend gone before his time: mostly for Randy
Randy said
David’s gone
and so
one more falls
to a life
lived on an edge
Susu Rob
Judith something
and what about
James
a small group
grown smaller
and I see them
still
the big bear
Rob
teasing about
which way to run
when a grizzly
comes looking
for lunch
Susu’s scam
of a magazine
my first
supposed
publication
and David
his little Indian
pleasing the ladies
and James
ahead of us
a bright star
diminished
by alcohol
others too
I lost track
Randy keeping tabs
upon us all
and mourning
with regrets
we’re running
out of time
he says
our friends
are dying
and how I wish
I could be there
Friday night
to cry with you
old friend
as we watch
the clock
ticking
away
Mourning Meng Hao-jan by Wang Wei
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
Hsiang-yang Travels: Thinking of Meng Hao-jan by Po Chü-i
Emerald Ch’u mountain peaks and cliffs,
emerald Han River flowing full and fast:
Meng’s writing survives here, its elegant
ch’i now facets of changing landscape.
But today, chanting the poems he left us
and thinking of him, I find his village
clear wind, all memory of him vanished.
Dusk light fading, Hsiang-yang empty,
I look south to Deer-Gate Mountain, haze
lavish, as if some fragrance remained,
but his old mountain home is lost there:
mist thick and forests all silvered azure.
translated by David Hinton
Mevlüt
the custom
is about mourning
7 days later
then 40 days
saying goodbye
to those who have gone
before us
to wherever whatever
one believes
awaits us
and as I touch
my head
on the carpet
of the mosque
I say goodbye
to all those
I have lost
along the way
Burial Songs: 2 by T’ao Ch’ıen
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.
Leonard Durso 