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Thursday, July 12, 2012

Japanese Poems of the Heian Period and Before: My Versions in English


Almost showed you plum blossoms
that were a light fall of snow.
--Akahito




How few the moments
that my gaze has lit upon
the flowers of spring.

How many the months and days
that I have passed without fruit.
--Fujiwara no Okikase



The sea slips from the shore.
One white wave again stands fast.
A crane in the surf.
--The Emperor Uda



Destinations unknown,
two ships that left harbor
side by side, now diverge.
--Saigyo Hoshi



Before the dubious shrine
I stand dumbstruck and crying.
--Saigyo Hoshi



This world, I try not to see,
still dogs me like a shadow.
--Minamoto no Toshiyori



...to be in this world
the seagull sleeping alone
on the tossing sea...
--Tagaya Masahiro




Leaves fall on the roof,
blurring the silence of night
and the sound of rain.
--Minamoto no Yorizane



Rising and falling, waves
scour the moon in the sea,
effacing nothing.
--Kiyowara Fukayabu




Between the eternals,
the unmoving mountains
and incontinent seas,
we are flowers, quickest
among fleeting flowers.
--Anon.




Long into summer nights
when I think at last of bed
the dawn cuckoo sings
--Tsurayuki




Foam on the water
I am, that still wants to live
for a thousand years.
--Otomo no Yakamochi




To an empty land
she and I would go and live
alone together.
--Otomo no Yakamochi



Sad to meet in dreams:
My hand reaches out to you
and flounders awake.
--Otomo no Yakamochi




Should we never meet,
and entwine,  threads making cord,
now this way, now that,

upon what line shall I string
all the jewels of my life?
--Sakanoe Korenori


The rare tanka I've managed to render as a tanka.



Yes, she may not think of me
not ever forgetting her.
--Anon.



Plum trees bloom again.
Empty as a locust shell,
my own springless world.
--Anon.



Love without requite:
a prayer in the temple
behind a starving god.
--Lady Kasa



But by its own call
on the evergreen mountain
the deer knows the fall.
--Onakatomi Yoshinobu



Unmistakably
even here, far south in Tsu,
winter's come at last

to my cottage, hidden down
in a blanket of rushes.
--Minamoto no Shigeyuki



That this day too comes
to dusk:  more clear with each note
of the temple bell.
--Anon.



Unbearably cold,
sanderlings cried in the wind
across the river

the night I went to see her
whom I loved beyond bearing.
--Tsurayuki









Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Wang Wei: My Versions in English


Separation Sickness

Red beans of the longing tree grow 
     there in the south.   
Come the spring, the branches bush out 
     and fill with seeds.   
I hope, friend, that you will pick more 
     and more and more   
of what is the best thing for this illness of ours. 
     

alt:  of what is the simple for this illness of ours.





White stones stick up from Bramble Brook.
Red leaves sparse against a cold sky.
No rain now on the mountain path.
My clothes wet from the high green brush.




PASSING THE TEMPLE OF TEEMING FRAGRANCE
The Temple of Teeming Fragrance
measureless miles in summit clouds.
Ancient forest, a pathless way.
Deep mountains, directionless bell.
Spring water over jagged rocks.
Yellow sun on cool green pines.
Twilight, winding pool.  Quiet sitting
uncoils the poison dragon of the heart.
    

Monks make incense at the Temple of Teeming Fragrance.



DEER FENCE
Empty Mountain.
Seeing no one.
Hearing someone's
echoing voice.
The late day sun
enters again
the deep forest,
shining once more
on the green moss.






In my old age, I want only peace.
The ten thousand things are not my concern.
I've no plan for the rest of my life
but to come back to this, my ancient woods.
Piney wind blows my girdle open.
Mountain moon lights upon the lute I play.
So where's the warp and weft of the world?
Fishermen's songs come far up the inlet.







Wang Wei was a painter as well.                                                                



















Du Fu: My Versions in English

SPRING PROSPECT

The nation in ruins,
mountains and rivers remain.

The city in spring's
deep in grass and trees.

My tears at the passing days
fall as dew from the flowers.

Embittered by separation,
I startle at birdsong.

Beacon fires have blazed
for all these three months.

For a letter from home
I'd give ten thousand in gold.

I've pulled so at my white hair
my hatpin hardly holds.
--Du Fu


Thanks to Joel Lipman, the poet laureate of Lucas County, for the suggestion to separate the couplets. Helps to break up the clunkiness, in English, of always-endstopped lines.



Another Version:


The nation in ruin,
mountains and rivers remain.
The city in spring,
deep in grass and trees.

Lost in wretched times,
weeping over flowers.
Sunk in loneliness,
startling at birdsong.

Beacon fires,
burning for three months.
Family letters,
worth thousands in gold.

Pulling so at my white hair
that my hatpin barely holds.


春望

国破山河在
城春草木深
感时花溅泪
恨别鸟惊心
烽火连三月
家书抵万金
白头搔更短
浑欲不胜簪


chūn wàng

guó pò shān hé zài
chéng chūn cǎo mù shēn
gǎn shí huā jiàn lèi
hèn bié niǎo jīng xīn
fēng huǒ lián sān yuè
jiā shū dǐ wàn jīn
bái tóu sāo gèng duǎn
hún yù bù shēng zān








Thoughts of the Night Traveller

Slender grass in the shore breeze.
Tall mast on a lonely boat.
Stars sink over spreading fields.
The moon rides on the river.
Too old and sick for office--
and will scribblings make my name?
Drifting, drifting, what am I?
One gull between earth and sky.




FACING SNOW


Battle cries, many new ghosts.
Old, alone--worry and grief.
Ragged clouds are low at dusk.
Snow swirls around and around.
Ladle and cup--green wine gone.
Dying embers--stove still red.
I sit, no news from anywhere,
my books blank with my sorrow.
     --my tr.



对雪

战哭多新鬼
愁吟独老翁
乱云低薄暮
急雪舞回风
瓢弃尊无绿
炉存火似红
数州消息断
愁坐正书空





MOONLIT NIGHT


Just now, alone in our room,
you gaze at the Fuzhou moon.
Our children--I ache for them
from far away--they don't see
why you brood upon Changon.
Fragrant fog scents your gathered hair.
Lustrous moon chills your slender arms.
When, among the gauzy curtains,
will we lean together again,
these tears dried on our faces,
their traces limned in moonlight?




On the River I Saw the Water Surging like the Ocean:  A Sketchy Account


I have always been a little off,
      so driven by love of well-made verse,
pursuing that word of startling rightness,
      I'd sooner die than rest.
In my reckless old age,
      my words and I overwhelm each other.
So you needn't fear, birds and flowers,
     for the secrets of your spring.
Just now, I've put in a pier
      to dangle a fishing line from.
Before, I was angling from an anchored raft
      in place of a boat.
Who could I get with the mind of a master
      like Tao or Xie
to help out with my writing
      and wander the nearby world with me?
--Du Fu, my tr.




Birds are whiter on the blue river.
Flowers flame up on the green mountain.
Spring, I see, has come and gone again.
What day--what year--will I return home?
--my tr.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

HITOMARU: My Versions in English


Not combing my morning hair,
so lately pillowed in his hand.



Dim in the mist of morning
off the shore of Akashi:
the island hiding the boat
upon which sail all my thoughts.



Walking past my door
unglancing: how she tells me
"so then, die of love."

Ono no Komachi: My Versions in English


Imagining My Death and Cremation

Sad to end as just
a green haze drifting pale
over distant fields.




Falling, the long rain,
the color from the flower,
the eye through the world.




Should the stream whisper "come,"
like a severed reed,
I would float away,
adrift as my heart.



Moonlight pouring through the trees
fills me up with autumn.

Li Bai: My Versions in English


Blue mountains to the north of town.
White water to the east of town.
We stop here for a last goodbye:
Thistledown flies a thousand li.
Now you must be a floating cloud,
and your old friend, the setting sun.
Waving, each goes his separate way.
Parting horses nicker and neigh.





As flowers bloom and leaves unfold,
my friend sets out, east for Guanling.
His solitary sail recedes,
vanishing where river meets sky.





Two versions of "Jade Stairs"

Resentment on the Jade Stairs

Midnight on the stairs of jade,
white dew soaks her silken hose.
Draw down then the crystal shade:
fall's moon glitters in its gems.



Stood Up on the Jade Stairs

Midnight on the stairs of jade,
white dew soaked your silken hem.
Draw down then the crystal shade:
moonlight glitters in its gems.




High Summer

Lazing in the mountain wood,
waving a white feather fan,
I get up, open my clothes,
hang my headband on a rock.
Green pine wind plays through my hair.




Wine with the Mountain Hermit

We drink amid the mountain flowers.
A cup, one more, and then another.
I'm in a stupor, you stagger off.
Come back with your lute, when you can.




Alone in My Cups

Drinking wine, unaware
of nightfall. Fallen flowers
fill the folds of my clothes.
Getting up and walking
to the moonlit river,
where no birds and few men
remain.

Saturday, July 7, 2012

Posted for no particular reason except that Rocky and the Indians were to a large degree the center of my life through much of grade school.  And Jim Brown was the other locus of boyhood worship.