I only hear a bell beyond the mist,
can’t see the mist-wrapped temple.
The man secluded there never stops walking–
dew from the grass soaks his straw sandals–
nothing but the mountaintop moon
each night to light his comings and goings.
translated by Burton Watson
At spring’s end, I long for home,
feverish, my tangled hair uncombed.
All day, swallows squabble in the eaves.
Breezes bring the scent of roses through the screen.
translated by Sam Hamill
Pleading eyebrows, intoxicating eyes!
When I first looked at you, I knew my heart was lost.
Do you remember that time in the west–
your billowing, cloudlike hair,
your best silk stockings, your lilac tongue?
You said to me, “When was I treated so well?”
But before the clouds and rain,
east winds blew everything away.
I’m grieving still,
but heaven doesn’t hear.
translated by Sam Hamill
Faint clouds caress the mountains
where blue sky enters dry grass.
From the watchtower, a lone horn sounds.
Suddenly, I want to stop my little boat
and share a farewell cup of wine.
Our time together was a glimpse of paradise.
But it is futile to remember—
only the mist remains.
translated by Sam Hamill
Rain brings flowers to this road each spring,
flowers to paint the hills with colors.
I hike along a secret steam
Among a thousand yellow orioles.
Clouds take shapes of dragon and snake,
soaring, turning in the air.
I lie in wisteria shade, so drunk
I don’t even know directions.
translated by Sam Hamill
This is my third Cold Food Festival
since I was exiled to Huang-chou.
Each parting spring, each year, I grieve.
Nevertheless, each passes–no regret.
This year there’s pestilential rain,
the past two months dark as autumn.
I lie still, listening to cherry blossoms fall
into snow, pink and growing muddy.
Of what steals things in the dark,
the strangest arrives at midnight:
as though a young man went to bed
only to wake and find his hair turned white.
translated by Sam Hamill
Beyond barred windows,
shadows cover the garden,
shadows slide over the curtain
as I play my lute in silence.
Distant mountains stretch the sunset,
breezes bring clouds and rain.
The pear blossoms fade and die,
and I can’t keep them from falling.
translated by Sam Hamill
As opposed to a “not thinking chitalia”
If you want to be a hero well just follow me
il disinganno prima dell'illusione
Exploring Different Dimensions of Life!
The poetry of ineptitude.
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