Tonight at Fu-chou, this moon she watches
Alone in our room. And my little, far-off
Children, too young to understand what keeps me
Away, or even remember Ch’ang-an. By now,
Her hair will be mist-scented, her jade-white
Arms chilled in its clear light. When
Will it find us together again, drapes drawn
Open, light traced where it dries our tears?
translated by David Hinton
Autumn returns, and again we are cast thistledown together
on the winds. The elixir of immortality has eluded us—
Ko Hung must be ashamed. Days drunk and singing too loud,
Given to the wind, yet resolute–so brave, and for whom?
translated by David Hinton
Now fine homes in ten prefectures have dead sons
making water with their blood on Ch’en-t’ao Marsh.
An early winter’s panoramic waste: crystal sky,
the silence of war. Forty thousand dead in a day.
Mongol battalions return. Their arrows bathed blood-
black, drunk in the markets, they sing Mongol songs.
And we face north to mourn, another day conjuring
our army’s appearance passing into hopeful night.
translated by David Hinton
We’ve tossed aside the tranquil peace of those northern grasslands:
Mongol dust overran both capitals, left defenses burning, burning.
Adviser no more, grown old, your ten-thousand-mile life wandering. . .
Come here under cold skies, I listen to the sound of a river flowing.
translated by David Hinton
This night of yellow-blossom wine
Finds me old, my hair white. Joys
I ponder lost to youth, I look out
Across distances. Seasons run together.
Brothers and sisters inhabit desolate
Songs. Heaven and Earth fill drunken eyes.
Warriors and spears, frontier passes. . . .
All day, thoughts have gone on and on.
translated by David Hinton
Above K’uei-chou’s wall, a cloud-form village. Below:
wind-tossed sheets of falling rain, a swollen river
Thrashing in the gorge. Thunder and lightning battle.
Kingfisher-gray trees and ashen ivy shroud sun and moon.
War horses can’t compare to those back in quiet pastures.
But of a thousand homes, a bare hundred remain. Ai–
Ai–the widow beaten by life’s toll, grief-torn,
Sobbing in what village where on the autumn plain?
translated by DAvid Hinton
Everywhere petals are flying
And Spring is fading. Ten thousand
Atoms of sorrow whirl away
In the wind. I will watch the last
Flowers as they fade, and ease
The pain in my heart with wine.
Two kingfishers mate and nest in
The ruined river pavilion.
Stone unicorns, male and female,
Guard the great tomb near the park.
After the laws of their being,
All creatures pursue happiness.
Why have I let an official
Career swerve me from my goals?
translated by Kenneth Rexroth
Clear Autumn. I gaze out into
Endless spaces. The horizon
Wavers in bands of haze. Far off
The river flows into the sky.
The lone city is blurred with smoke.
The wind blows the last leaves away.
The hills grow dim as the sun sets.
A single crane flies late to roost.
The twilit trees are full of crows.
translated by Kenneth Rexroth
A peasant’s shack beside the
Clear river,the rustic gate
Opens on a deserted road.
Weeds grow over the public well.
I loaf in my old clothes. Willow
Branches sway. Flowering trees
Perfume the air. The sun sets
Behind a flock of cormorants,
Drying their black wings along the pier.
translated by Kenneth Rexroth
The days grow long, the mountains
Beautiful. The south wind blows
Over blossoming meadows.
Newly arrived swallows dart
Over the steaming marshes.
Ducks in pairs drowse on the warm sand.
translated by Kenneth Rexroth
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 