We present this work in honor of Greenery Day.

Japanese
976 – 1030
If capital folk
Should ask, ‘How were they?’
I would rather show them;
Of yonder mountain cherry,
A single sprig is what I need.
We present this work in honor of Greenery Day.
If capital folk
Should ask, ‘How were they?’
I would rather show them;
Of yonder mountain cherry,
A single sprig is what I need.
A dialogue occurred, I happen to know,
Betwixt the white eagle and the crow.
Birds we are, said the crow, in the main,
Friends we are, and thus we shall remain.
Birds we are, agreed the eagle, only in name,
Our temperaments, alas, are not the same.
My leftovers are a king’s feast,
Carrion you devour, to say the least.
My perch’s the king’s arm, his palace my bed,
You haunt the ruins, mingle with the dead.
My color is heavenly, as everyone can tell,
Your color inflicts pain, like news from hell.
Kings tend to choose me rather than you,
Good attracts good, that goes for evil too.
Marvelously, friends,
of what has harvested a burning passion
therefore not for that, there would be lowered,
accompanied by the moon, the night,
from the highest heaven to Earth.
My passion is that I love in such a way
that if I broke up, my heart would follow him.
Oh, I wish I knew.
If there is a way to be alone together
which do not reach the ears of the spy.
How wonderful
I want to be alone with my beloved
living, even when it is in my gut and in my chest.
A thin jug to a cup his head did bend
And a painful secret to her ear he did sigh;
I do not know what he told, what he said,
But I saw blood pouring down his eye.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 985th birthday.
A fragment moon hangs from the bare tung tree
The water clock runs out, all is still
Who sees the dim figure come and go alone
Misty, indistinct, the shadow of a lone wild goose?
Startled, she gets up, looks back
With longing no one sees
And will not settle on any of the cold branches
Along the chill and lonely beach
I see an orchard
Where the time has come
For harvesting,
But I do not see
A gardener reaching out a hand
Toward its fruits.
Youth goes, vanishing; I wait alone
For somebody I do not wish to name
Translation by Christopher Middleton and Leticia Garza-Falcón
In honor of the Prophet’s Birthday, we present this work by one of Islam’s most lyrical poets.
The sky darkens:
flowers open their mouths
and search for the udders
of the nurturing rain
as battalions of black
water-laden clouds
parade majestically past
flashing their golden swords.
Away from the gouache of his lips
to those who want it,
just as the border defends itself from those who besiege it,
one is defended by sabers and spears,
and those who are protected by the magic of her eyes.
In honor of Muharram, we present this work by one of Islam’s great medieval poets.
Look at the beautiful sun:
as it rises, it shows one golden eyebrow,
plays miser with the other one,
but we know that soon
it will spread out a radiant veil
over all.
A marvelous mirror that appears in the East
only to hide again at dusk.
The sky is saddened
when the sun leaves
and puts on mourning robes.
I believe that falling stars
are nothing more
than sky’s gem-hard tears.
How oft does passion’s grasp destroy
The pleasure that it strives to gain!
How soon the thoughtless course of joy
Is doomed to terminate in pain!
When Prudence would thy steps delay,
She but restrains to make thee blest;
Whate’er from joy she lops away
But heightens and secures the rest.
Wouldst thou a trembling flame expand
That hastens in the lamp to die?
With careful touch, with sparing hand,
The feeding stream of life supply.
But if thy flask profusely sheds
A rushing torrent o’er the blaze,
Swift round the sinking flame it spreads,
And kills the fire it fain would raise.