We present this work in honor of World Tourism Day.
I remember the temple, this route I’ve travelled before,
I recall the bridge as I cross it again.
It seems the hills and rivers have been waiting,
The flowers and willows all are selfless now.
The field is sleek, and vivid, thin mist shines,
On soft sand, the sunlight’s colour shows it’s late.
All the traveler’s sorrow fades away,
What better place to rest than this?
Go fast chariots! I am going back to where the ruler of Wei lives to console him.
The horse keeps wandering, and when will i reach Zhao?
The daifus (high officials) went wandering, but my heart is filled with worries.
There is no person that thinks I am good, yet I cannot go back.
That person doesn’t think very much of me, but my thoughts haven’t changed.
You do not think of me as good, but my thoughts for you would not cease.
I will climb up those hills and collect plants (to make medicine to cure my worries).
A woman has lot of thoughts, and they all go their own ways.
The people of Xu worry about me yet they are childish and mad!
I went out in the wilderness and noticed the wheat not reaped (because of the political situation).
I should try to report it, yet who should I tell it to?
To all the high officials, do not say I worry.
I have so many thoughts but it is not anything compared to where I am trying to go.
We present this work in honor of China’s Mid-Autumn Festival.
Cicadas sob at dawn, warblers mourn at dusk.
Spellbound, as ten fingers speak.
Stop chanting scriptures and chatting
Golden chimes scattering confusion in a clear autumn.
In honor of Labor Day, we present this scene of the poet at work.
And I see sparrows fly over. They look around
as if it’s inappropriate to stop for just any grain of rice.
They have clear eyes, with light from inside.
Starlings also fly over, in flocks, bewildered.
They flutter and make a sound that seems to flash.
When they’re gone, the sky gets lower, in dark blue.
In this village deep in the central plain
the sky is always low, forcing us to look at its blue,
the way our ancestors make us look inside ourselves,
narrow and empty, so we look out again
at the full September –
we’re comforted by its insignificance but hurt by its smallness.
Living our life this way, we feel secure.
So much rice. Where does it come from?
So much gold color. Where does it come from?
Year after year I’ve been blessed, and then deserted.
When happiness and sadness come in the same color code,
I’m happy
to be forgotten. But who am I separated from?
I don’t know. I stay close to my own hours.
We present this work in honor of National Senior Citizens’ Day.
Old man pushing seventy,
in truth he acts like a little boy,
whooping with delight when he spies some mountain fruits,
laughing with joy, tagging after village mummers;
with the others having fun stacking tiles to make a pagoda,
standing alone staring at his image in the jardiniere pool.
Tucked under his arm, a battered book to read,
just like the time he first set off for school.
A pure breeze billows bed-curtains and blinds,
The moon of dawning lights the secluded room.
My husband is away on a distant journey,
The light of his face has gone from the orchid chamber.
I clutch the vacant shadows to my breast,
Only a light quilt covers the empty bed.
At the height of our joy, we grieved the nights were so short,
Now in my despair I resent the length of the dark.
I stroke my pillow, sigh in my loneliness,
Whelmed in sorrow, my heart is torn within me.
We present this work in honor of the Ching Ming Festival.
I say, you are the April of this world;
Your laughter ignites the winds hither and thither;
Tinkling and dancing to the brilliant lights of spring.
You are the soft haze of April mornings,
Dusk blows the mellowness of the breeze,
The stars glittering subconsciously, fine rain drops sprinkle like wine amid the flowers.
That gentleness, gracefulness, is you,
It is you wearing a radiant crown of a hundred flowers,
You are innocence, dignity,
You are the full moon night after night.
Ivory swathes after melted snow, is like you;
New shoots of verdant green, is you;
Tender joy, the sparkling ripples carry long awaited white lotuses of your dreams.
You are the trees that bloom,
The swallows that chitter between the roof beams,
—— you are love, warmth,
Hope,
You are the April of this world!
High rises the Eastern Peak
Soaring up to the blue sky.
Among the rocks—an empty hollow,
Secret, still, mysterious!
Uncarved and unhewn,
Screened by nature with a roof of clouds.
Times and Seasons, what things are you
Bringing to my life ceaseless change?
I will lodge for ever in this hollow
Where Springs and Autumns unheeded pass.
Translation by Arthur Waley
We present this work in honor of the 25th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Meteors
Are only brilliant
To human beings.
They sweep into darkness
And then tear away.
Is life as uncertain
As meteors?
Spring comes to the room decorated with celestial-fruit lanterns.
Using them to light up her husband’s study, she entertains her in-laws even more.
In the inner chambers, the bride displays ingenuity
Offering her family novel and exquisite lanterns in place of soups.
Poets Corner 