Short Poems

I thank thee, O Lord, for the stones in the street
I thank thee for the hay-carts yonder and for the houses built and half-built
That fly past me as I stride.
But most of all for the great wind in my nostrils
As if thine own nostrils were close.

At the country inn, thousands of peach trees
are heavy with blossoms:
the best spring scenes are west of the painted bridge.
The hermit has been inspired to search for flowers:
as he sits on horseback, his poem is finished—
but he has lost his way!

Leaving homeland, parted from kin, banished to a strange place,
I wonder my heart feels so little anguish and pain.
Consulting Chuang Tzu, I find where I belong:
surely my home is there in Not-Even-Anything land.

Forgotten by the one
I was so sure
would come asking about me—
since then all I do
is wonder if I even exist

In what house, the jade flute that sends these dark notes drifting,
scattering on the spring wind that fills Lo-yang?
Tonight if we should hear the willow-breaking song,
who could help but long for the gardens of home?

Green bubbles—new-brewed wine;
lumps of red—a small stove for heating;
evening comes and the sky threatens snow—
Could you drink a cup, I wonder?

“Come, come, let's go home, look at today's sun.
The sun's gone down, look at today's sun.”
“I left my knit hat at the tea shop, I dropped your fan in the town.
I'll buy you one when I go to Miyoshi Town again.”
“Perhaps the town doesn't have them, he doesn't bring the fan!”
“The summer passes. Let's put the fan away!”

Holy-rood come forth and shield
Us i'th'Citie, and the Field:
Safely guard us, now and aye,
From the blast that burns by day;
And those sounds that us affright
In the dead of dampish night.
Drive all hurtfull Feinds us fro,
By the Time the Cocks first crow.

Saddened by the sun
and blue of the sky

the leper ate a child
at moonrise by the barley fields

and through the night cried out
his sorrow red as a flower.

White-haired, but wanton still,
she eyed a bright young spark.
Hair dyed black, she panted to the mountaintop, but as she crested the topmost ridge a sudden burst of rain stained her white collar black and turned her black hair white again.
Thus the matron's
hopes were raised and shattered in a trice.