You say nothing is created?
It doesn’t matter; with the clay
of the earth, make a cup
so your brother can drink.
translated by Mary G. Berg & Dennis Maloney
proverb XXXVI by Antonia Machado
Empirical faith. We neither are nor will be.
All our life is on loan.
We brought nothing; we will take nothing away.
translated by Mary G. Berg & Dennis Maloney
Early Spring, Kuei Year of the Hare, Thinking of Ancient Farmers: 1 by T’ao Ch’ien
Though I knew southern fields in song
long ago, I’d never walked out into them.
Invariably hungry, Yen prefected wisdom,
but how can I ignore spring breaking out
here? At dawn, loading up my cart and
setting out, I already feel far away.
Birds sing, celebrating the new season.
Cool winds bring blessings in abundance,
and in these distances empty of people,
bamboo crowds country paths. Now I see
why that farmer laughing at Confucius
lived so far away and never went back.
My way seems childish to the world-wise,
but what I nurture here never grows thin.
translated by David Hinton
Untitled poem by T’ao Ch’ien
Days and months never take their time.
The four seasons keep bustling each other
away. Cold winds churn lifeless branches.
Fallen leaves cover long paths. We’re
frail, crumbling with each turning year.
Our temples turn white early, and once
that bleached streamer’s tucked into your
hair, the road ahead starts closing in.
This house is an inn awaiting travelers,
and I another guest leaving. All this
leaving and leaving—where will I ever
end up? My old home’s on South Mountain.
translated by David Hinton
from Turning Seasons: 2 by T’ao Ch’ien
Boundless, the lake’s immaculate
skin boundless, I rinse myself
clean. The view all distance,
all distance inciting delight,
I look deep. They say if you’re
content you’re satisfied easily
enough. Raising this winecup, I
smile, taken by earth’s own joy.
translated by David Hinton
for Easter Sunday, 2024: the birds of heaven
time to dance
all the hours
of the day
the night
and shake the dust
from my boots
while tomorrow looms
on the horizon
as the birds
of heaven
sing
Sleep by Yang Wan-li
Only a little high, as if I had drunk no wine at all—
the chilly night seems to last a year.
I woke up at midnight and wrote down a dream
but couldn’t go back to sleep.
Thousands of things rise from the depths of my mind
and appear before my eyes.
The lucid depression is unbearable—
a single wild goose crying in the cold night.
translated by Jonathan Chaves
Evening Sitting in the Wo-chih Studio by Yang Wan-li
The room is stuffy and uncomfortable:
I open a window to let in the cool air.
Forest trees shade the sunlight;
the inkstone on my desk glitters jade green.
My hand reaches naturally for a book of poetry
and I read some poems out loud.
The ancients had a mountain of sorrows
but my heart is as calm as a river.
If I am different from them,
how is it that they move me so deeply?
The feeling passes and I laugh to myself.
Outside a cicada urges on the sunset.
translated by Jonathan Chaves
To Know the Dark by Wendell Berry
To go into the dark with a light is to know the light.
To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,
and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.
Sleep by Wendell Berry
I love to lie down weary
under the stalk of sleep
growing slowly out of my head,
the dark leaves meshing.
Leonard Durso 