A letter from long-ago shores arrives, saying
our village is tangled in sickness and hunger.
Why are they telling me, a ten-thousand-mile
wanderer, swelling my hundred-year sorrow?
No one cares about patching up ruined lives
now, and my lifework’s only turned to shame.
My sick eyes gaze off toward them. Night falls.
I trust myself to this little-boat life all adrift.
translated by David Hinton
Getting this old isn’t much fun,
and it’s worse stuck in bed, sick.
I draw water and arrange flowers,
comforted by their scents adrift,
scents adrift, gone in a moment.
And how much longer for me?
Cut flowers and this long-ago I:
it’s so easy forgetting each other.
translated by David Hinton
West of Lumen City, a hundred mountains rise ridge beyond ridge.
All trace of my life buried in these dark depths of haze and cloud,
it’s perfectly empty: that worry over white hair, over all I’ve done
and not done. In spring wind, the river lights up a ravaged face.
translated by David Hinton
Dawn lights up the room. I close my book and sleep,
dreaming of Bell Mountain and full of tenderness.
How do you grow old living with failure and disgrace?
Just go back to the cascading creek: cold, shimmering.
translated by David Hinton
Gazing all day into mountains, I can’t get enough of mountains.
Retire into mountains, and mountains become our old masters:
when mountain blossoms scatter away, mountains always remain,
and in empty mountain stream water, mountains deepen idleness.
translated by David Hinton
I’ve lived in the country long enough to know its many joys.
I was starting to feel like a child back in my old village again,
and suddenly, leaving the city today, I leave all that dust behind:
turning to mountains and valleys, I feel them enter my eyes.
translated by David Hinton
Had I been an ox or horse
I would rejoice to see grass and beans;
If, on the other hand, I were a woman,
the sight of men would please me.
But if I were really me
I would always settle for what I be.
If liking and dislike keep you upset
surely you are being used:
Big man, with all your dignity,
don’t mistake what you have for what you are.
translated by Jan W. Walls
I follow the moon into the mountains,
I search for clouds to accompany me home.
A spring morning, dew on the flowers:
and the fragrance clings to my gown.
translated by Jan W. Walls
The harvest ripe, the farmers rejoice;
in the autumn wind the traveler alone grieves.
On and on winds this crooked road
and a homeward horse in the slanting sun.
translated by Jan. W. Walls
Middle years devoted to the nation, I lived a fleeting dream,
and home again in old age, I wander borderland wilderness.
Looking south to green mountains, it’s clear I’m not so alone
here; on spring lakes, they crowd my little-boat life all adrift.
translated by David Hinton
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 