years
they go
and go
and are gone
and with them
all of us
fade away
into the past
of someone else’s
memory
the passage of time
Not weak by nature, but still there are lines here, and a sentiment, I cannot help but relate to and admire: Poem without a Category, No. 7 by T’ao Yüan-ming
Sun and moon refuse to slow their pace;
the four seasons press and hurry each other onward.
Cold wind shakes the bare branches,
fallen leaves blanket the long lane.
Weak by nature, I feel myself decay with time’s passing,
the black hair at my temples already turned white.
Flecks of gray find their way into my head,
signs that the road ahead wll grow more and more narrow.
What is a house but an inn on a journey,
and I a traveler who must keep moving on?
Move on, move on–and where will I go?
My old home is there on the southern mountain.
translated by Burton Watson2
on the passage of time
no use
looking
at the clock
hours
drag by
morning
nowhere
in sight
over time: New Year’s Day, 2018
time comes
it goes
a day a month
a year a decade
vanishing
like so much dust
carried away
through an open window
leaving fragments
of images events faces
long forgotten
to reappear
out of context
a life lived
in segments
over time
always
over time
which has the habit
of slipping
away
untitled poem by T’ao Chien
Days and months never take their time.
The four seasons keep bustling each other
away. Cold winds churn lifeless branches.
Fallen leaves cover long paths. We’re frail,
crumbling more with each turning year.
Our temples turn white early, and once
your hair flaunts that bleached streamer,
the road ahead starts closing steadily in.
This house is an inn awaiting travelers,
and I yet another guest leaving. All this
leaving and leaving–where will I ever
end up? My old home’s on South Mountain.
translated by David Hinton
on the passage of time: November 16, 2015: Maltepe
time comes
it goes
a day a month
a year a decade
vanishing
like so much dust
carried away
through an open window
leaving fragments
of images
events
faces
long forgotten
to reappear
out of context
a life
lived
in segments
over time
always
over time
which has the habit
of slipping
away
on time
restless mind
will not shut down
sleep elusive
so often these days
memories of moments
hours long gone
time slipping away
the weight of mortality
heavy to bear
now
not forever
just time
erasing tomorrow
when yesterday
is today
the clock
no use
looking
hours
drag by
morning
nowhere
in sight
untitled poem by T’ao Ch’ien about the passage of time
Days and months never take their time.
The four seasons keep bustling each other
away. Cold winds churn lifeless branches.
Fallen leaves cover long paths. We’re frail,
crumbling more with each turning year.
Our temples turn white early, and once
your hair flaunts that bleached streamer,
the road ahead starts closing steadily in.
This house is an inn awaiting travelers,
and I yet another guest leaving. All this
leaving and leaving–where will I ever
end up? My old home’s on South Mountain.
translated by David Hinton
Spring Morning by Meng Hao-jan
Spring, napped, unconscious of the dawn.
Everywhere, birdsong.
Night sounded, wind, and rain.
How many petals, now, are fallen?
translated by J.P. Seaton
Leonard Durso 