My lame donkey hates the stony road
up there, and I’m done with big climbs.
It seems forever since I saw you, my old
monk friend. Our youth suddenly gone,
I keep following morning clouds away,
then race evening birds back into this
valley of pines all shadowed dark. Here,
I know you in the distances between us.
translated by David Hinton
I close my gate, wanting to end grief,
but grief won’t go away. Then spring
wind comes, and I want to keep grief
close, but somehow grief won’t stay.
translated by David Hinton
A hundred days, free to go, and it’s almost spring;
for the years left, pleasure will be my chief concern.
Out the gate, I do a dance, wind blows my face;
our galloping horses race along as magpies cheer.
I face the wine cup and it’s all a dream,
pick up a poem brush, already inspired.
Why try to fix the blame for past trouble?
Years now I’ve stolen posts I never should have had.
translated by Burton Watson
***Written on his release from prison after 130 days and before leaving for a remote post which was essentially like exile again.
Drank tonight at Eastern Slope, sobered up, drank again;
got home somewhere around third watch.
The houseboy snores like thunder;
I bang the gate but nobody answers.
Leaning on my stick, I listen to river sounds.
Always it irks me–this body not my own.
When can I forget the world’s business?
Night far gone, wind still, river creped in ripples:
I’ll leave here in a little boat,
on far waters spend the years remaining.
translated by Burton Watson
From the traveler, singing; from the field, weeping—both spur sorrow.
Fires in the distance, dipping stars move slowly toward extinction.
Am I waiting up for New Year’s? Aching eyes won’t close.
No one here speaks my dialect: I long for home.
A double quilt and my feet still cold—the frost must be heavy;
my head feels light—I washed it and the hair is getting thin.
I thank the flickering torch that doesn’t refuse
to keep me company on a lonely boat through the night.
translated by Burton Watson
From the side, a whole range; from the end, a single peak;
far, near, high, low, no two parts alike.
Why can’t I tell the true shape of Lu-shan?
Because I myself am in the mountain.
translated by Burton Watson
and now when both of us are old—
too late to look for a lost road,
too late, I’m afraid, to study the Way.
This fall I began talks to buy some land;
if I build a house, it should be done by spring.
Nights at Snow Hall, in wind and rain,
already I hear you talking to me.
translated by Burton Watson
A Total Eclipse of the Art
Life with Art
An Aussie that loves to Roam about our globe #happytravels
ab ovo usque ad mala
In making of a castle on the cloud.
La vita è un’enorme tela: rovescia su di essa tutti i colori che puoi (Danny Kaye)
Poetry Whispers In a Pulchritudinous Dialect
...words and images from England's green and pleasant land...
Know the lived
Photos are NOT mine. Credits goes to their respective owners.If I didn't credit the photo SORRY, that means I couldn't find the owner...❤ My life is my choice! I'm going to live how I want. Good vibes only.
Crafting, Cooking & Journalling through Life
la condivisione del dolore è un dono di amore da parte di chi lo fa e di chi lo riceve
A picture tells a thousand stories!
Here, Now and Somewhere else
Moda-Creative thinking
Lucania la mia ragione di vita
