An entire tree of plum blossoms
between the snow and the moon
Pure petals, moonwhite moon
and snow glow cold
Inside, outside
clear and pure
We serve wine, sing poems
and let inspiration rise without end
We present this work in honor of the 30th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Vase says, I’m worth a thousand hammers
Hammer says, I shattered a hundred vases
Craftsman says, I made a thousand hammers
Great man says, I killed a hundred craftsmen
Hammer says, I even killed a great man
Vase says, I’m holding that great man’s cremains
We present this work in honor of China’s National Day.
Chiang-nan is a glorious and beautiful land,
And Chin-ling an exalted and kingly province!
The green canals of the city stretch on and on
And its high towers stretch up and up.
Flying gables lean over the bridle-road:
Drooping willows cover the Royal Aqueduct.
Shrill flutes sing by the coach’s awning,
And reiterated drums bang near its painted wheels.
The names of the deserving shall be carved on the Cloud Terrace.
And for those who have done valiantly rich reward awaits.
You used to love my Cypress Rafter Terrace,
But now you dote upon her Bright Yang Palace.
I know my place, take leave of your palanquin.
Hold in my feelings, weep for a cast-off fan.
There was a time my dances, songs, brought honor.
These letters and poems of long ago? Despised!
It’s true, I think–your favor collapsed like waves.
Hard to offer water that’s been spilled
We present this work in honor of Dragon Boat Day.
Our boat starts at night
from the beach of Yen Kuang.
Great ships sail only for profit
Only small boats come here because of your fame.
The passers-by are embarrassed by your virtue.
So in the night we steal by the place where you used to fish.
For no reason she refined the stone—I laugh at Queen Wo.
This led the idiot into the land of dreams.
All fight to admire the one napping by the peonies in the spring breeze,
Who sympathizes with the one sick in the Xiaoxiang Pavilion in the autumn rain?
Alone embracing this inextricable bind, a love for eternity
Hard to dispel this desolate feeling, lines of tears flow.
If you don’t believe that all beauties are ill-fated,
See all the ready-made patterns and stale compositions customarily left behind.
We present this work in honor of the Buddha’s birthday.
Listen, faithful Tibetans!
I am merging with the fundamental, the ground of all that is—
physical pain and suffering are disappearing…
The son, the inner elements of my body,
is reuniting with the mother, the outer elements.
Her physical remains will disappear into earth and stone.
The compassion of the Guru has never left me;
his manifestations fill all the world and call out to welcome me.
This wild lady has done everything;
Many times have I come and gone, but now, no longer.
I am a Tibetan wife sent back to her family.
I shall now appear as the Queen, the All-good, the Dharmakaya.
This self-sufficient black lady
has shaken things up far and wide;
now the shaking will carry me away into the southwest.
I have finished with intrigues,
with the fervent cascades of schemes and deceptions;
I am winding my way into the expanse of the Dharma.
I have mourned many men of Tibet who have left me behind—
but now I am the one who will go to the land of the Buddhas.
When first leaves fall on Lake Dongting,
I long for you, thousands of miles away.
In heavy dew my scented quilt feels cold,
At moonset, brocade screen deserted.
I would play a Southland melody
And crave to seal a letter to Jibei.
The letter has no other message but
This misery in living long apart.
We present this work in honor of the Ching Ming Festival.
Though life is brief, feeling is everlasting;
That is why man wants to live long.
The sun and moon follow the stars.
The whole world loves this name.
The dew is cold, and the warm wind drops;
The air is penetrating, the day bright.
The departing swallow leaves no shadow;
The returning wild goose brings a lingering cry.
Wine can wash away a hundred woes,
And chrysanthemums set a pattern for old age.
Why should I, a hermit,
Gaze vacantly at the change of seasons?
The ministers are ashamed of their empty grain jars.
The autumn chrysanthemums are alone in their beauty.
I alone sing while fastening my garments.
A feeling of melancholy stirs deep within me.
It is true that there is much amusement in living,
But in idling is there no accomplishment?
The king on the rampart flies the white flag.
Deep within the palace how could I know?
One hundred forty thousand all disarmed!
Among these there was not a single man?
Poets Corner 